Chaotic Technicality

Music I listened to while typing this poem out:

Without You – Oh Wonder

I didn’t want to push, rush the chaos                                                                     Oh good old chaos, destruction                                                                           reconstruction of this mind digging torture

You know, no one can drill in                                                                                 deep where there is only surface now                                                                       so get chipping away

Use your best tools and your latest techniques                                                 mine are so old and as concrete                                                                                     I don’t worship things anymore                                                                               but I like the idea that I’m already                                                                           creating a home for myself

After I leave this dreaded head space                                                                           I walk around so weak and I used to                                                                     appear quiet because I didn’t want                                                                     people to know about me

Now I trudge around dragging my demons                                                       along my skin for people to see but                                                                             I don’t bother with quick answers

Conversations, I love those. Intellectual                                                             spill your cries and what makes you cringe.

I live for what’s holding people back so                                                                     I can compare my pain I need out,                                                                             so maybe stop digging now and                                                                               just throw yourself ontop of me                                                                             while my body sleeps and                                                                                         soul drifts towards the bottom

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I am not you, nor myself.

One day I identify as Transgender, the next I’m fluid. I’ve come to the realization that I may not always identify as one gender, both genders or even a gender and that it’s not anyone else’s business as to why I go by different pronouns so very often.

I used to believe that I had to experience dysphoria just to be considered transgender or even believe I was born in the wrong body. Everyone has their own struggles, everyone is different and not everyone may feel the same way as another transgender person does. I don’t believe that I was born in the wrong body. However, I just believe that I need to alter the body my soul has been entrapped into.

If I tell someone that today I’m male and tomorrow, I go by neutral pronouns or even female pronouns, that doesn’t mean I’m being fake or that I’m doing it for attention. Labels are what make me confused and without them maybe I’d feel a lot more comfortable with who I am.

I myself, am too fluid in every sense of the word to label myself all the time as a certain gender. Sometimes I’m comfortable with it, sometimes I’m not. That doesn’t mean that I deserve less respect just because someone doesn’t accept me or are confused.

I am just simply trying to live in this world and it’s already hard enough.

I am me, myself and I. I am everything and nothing. I am the grey before, the disaster during and the aftermath of every storm.

Soul Department

I constantly wear something, it doesn’t glow, but it doesn’t radiate light                                                                                         Call it a mask, but I’d rather refer to it as a piece of cloth that was ripped                                                                                  from my skin                                                                                                                                                                                   It appears smooth, when it is really scruffy on the outside

Underneath, crawling insecurities bleeding through, pushing onwards                                                                                       It’s been molded perfectly, as though someone knew what it would look like                                                                           before it was placed                                                                                                                                                                 ontop of my bones

Scraping is impossible, tearing it off is what people                                                                                                                 have been trying to do to reveal                                                                                                                                       something else

But what they want to see is what they already are seeing, they just don’t care to believe it                                                               So digging inside is what they attempt to do, clawing, scratching at the windows of a soulless body