Category: Journal Entry

In the journey of grief, certain moments hit harder than others. Today, I opened my Storia journal and found myself confronting one of those moments: a simple, yet devastating wish to hear my mother’s voice one more time.

Pick Up the Phone, It’s Mom:

Everyday I see people take their mothers for granted. They reject the call. They brush her off. “Oh no, next time.” But one day there won’t be a next time. I know they don’t get it yet, and so is life. Oh I fondly remember that, there was a time I didn’t get it either. 

But now I’m on the side where I wish I could have one more call, one more “next time,” but it won’t ever come.

And the grass isn’t greener at all; in fact, it’s dead over here incase you’re wondering. Yea, it’s dead.. I checked… just like my mom.

And no, I’m not talking to those of you who have gone no contact. I’m looking at those with loving, caring, try-their-hardest (even if it’s their first go at life too) moms who put it off til next time. And I get it I had the superstar, that’s your number one fan type moms. And I’m sitting here telling you oh I regret and remember every single call I let go to voicemail or dog video I ignored.

You’ll regret this one day too, maybe not tomorrow or even the next 100 tomorrows but one of them you will. And after that you’ll regret it for every tomorrow that you will live to see. Shit maybe more.

And if you don’t, that means you’re one of the ones whose moms had to bury them.

And that’s maybe even worse. Because now your mom had to bury you and you made her live life with one less conversation with her child. Yea that’s tough man. You’d do that to your mom? Ouch. But seriously call your mom… just to even tell her that I said hi and talk to her a bit. You know since I don’t have one to call.

Just answer the phone or text next time it’s her. Maybe even act like you care… if not for her or you, do it for me, remember I’m gonna used the dead mom card again and say since I no longer can.

Finding Space for Grief with Storia

Processing these complex emotions becomes a little easier with tools that create space for reflection. The Storia journal app has become my digital sanctuary for these otherwise pent-up feelings and moments of grief or remembrance.

What makes Storia stand out is how it takes journaling to a level that is nurturing yet practical . Each entry you make contributes to your digital garden. This means you begin maintaining a streak to grow virtual plants. These then flourish with your consistent reflections or journal entries. The app offers thoughtful prompts like “What area of your life you want to grow?”, “What brought you joy today?” , and “what are you grateful for today?” that gently guide you toward healing.

I appreciate how Storia lets you create multiple journals with custom titles and covers. Therefore, my grief journal sits alongside my transition journal and my hiking log, each with its own purpose and tone. The “talk to journal” recording feature has been particularly helpful on days when typing feels too demanding but the words need to come out. Or I’m simply too busy to stop and type out my journals.

For a free app, Storia offers remarkable customization options. You can choose different themes, colors, and even journal covers that match your mood or personality. Even allowing you to choose your own photos as covers as I did with my hiking journal. You can add photos to journal entries though I haven’t played wi this much so I am unaware of any specific limits. This is really cool because it doesn’t feel like a clinical tool but rather a companion on the journey.

The Call We Can’t Return

Grief teaches us about the finality of missed opportunities. While apps like Storia help us process these feelings, they can’t bring back the calls we didn’t answer or the conversations we’ll never have. Though they can help us feel closure and peace by getting the words out or processing the feelings we wouldn’t have known we needed to.

If you still have the chance to pick up when your mom calls, consider it a gift. Definitely one that many of us would give anything to have again. Remember that sometimes the most profound act of self-care is caring for the relationships we still have, while we still have them.

The next time your phone rings and her name appears on the screen, remember: some of us would trade anything for that moment you might be taking for granted.

“They paved paradise and put up a parking lot. ”

Poeaxtry’s 🔗

Personality:

A poem about how somethings you do not grow out of.

I am 33 

Ohhhh no I am a grown man 

& I never stopped writing poetry 

about how much 

My god damn dad sucks.

Sorry kids sometimes 

It’s just the way it is. 

Some of us are cool enough 

to keep the angst as our 

entire personality. 

The letter:

Jake ,

I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you. Waiting on moms or grandmas porch until one of the two of them would no longer let me wait. Friday nights, dressed and ready, because you said you were coming. Then Saturday. Then Sunday. The same cycle of hope and disappointment that carved itself into my developing brain until doctors gave it a name: Borderline Personality Disorder. A condition born from abandonment between ages 5-17. A condition you created on your own with every promise broken.

What’s my middle name? My second middle name? When’s my birthday? How old am I? What city do I live in? These aren’t trick questions – they’re the most basic facts about your child that you’ve never bothered to hold onto.

I remember who wasn’t there when I broke bones, hit my first grand-slam, every time I was sick or sad. I remember who didn’t answer calls for days. I remember throwing fits, screaming and crying for you while my mother held me. I remember being used as your detective, held up to ex-girlfriends’ windows to report back who was inside. I remember your siblings giving me presents “from you” – but if they were truly from you, why didn’t you come too?

Don’t forget Todd was always a savage – that’s why he caught you following him and mom and you stood on the bar and told everyone you were a pussy so you didn’t take that loss too” He always was my dad and it wasn’t ever you. And that’s why I called you dad 2 to your face, and there was nothing you could do.

I remember a magistrate threatening my mom with jail if she didn’t get me to you, and I agreed because I didn’t want to hurt her. But at your house, I was always an outcast. I remember going to side jobs with you when I could because your wife was abusing me. I remember crying for you so many times, wrecking my mom’s house because I couldn’t understand: why didn’t you want a relationship with me like you had with your other kids?

You had court-ordered visitation days set -up by you and still didn’t show up. That isn’t my mother’s fault. Whatever my mother did to you should have had no effect on your relationship with me. Yet you’ve spent years trying to blame her, as if I haven’t been an adult making my own choices for the last 14 years.

I smoked weed in high school and you treated me like I was on crack, but when Matthew did the same thing, you had no problem with it. I was diagnosed with ADHD and you said it was “all BS” and my mom was crazy, but when Jacob had the same diagnosis, you accepted it without question.

Remember when I had nowhere to go with your almost 2-year-old grandson? You told me it was “time to stretch my wings and leave the nest.” So at 18, a high school dropout with no license and no help, I gave up my rights to my son. Yet somehow Jason still lives with you and Jessica (with her kids) too? I guess even they trump me and your grandkid.

I’ve watched you effortlessly try for everyone but me. I’ve seen your step-daughter share posts about what an awesome father you are to her. I’ve watched you accept your step-kids with open arms while shutting the door on me. What was wrong with me that made me so unwelcome when everyone else found a place in your life?

You let your wife beat me . You let my step-cousin sexually assault me on Christmas Eve. You bribed me with car rides because you knew I just wanted to spend time with you, then you’d disappear for months.

I didn’t choose you to be my dad, but you chose to have me. If you didn’t want the responsibility, you should have signed your rights away instead of keeping me hanging on, hoping you’d eventually show up consistently. You poked a whole in a condom for all of this?

I don’t want your money. I don’t want your excuses. I don’t even want your apology anymore. What I wanted was a father who showed up, who knew me, who protected me, who made me feel like I mattered as much as your other children.

That ship has sailed. I got to meet and know the parent who was there for me. I don’t have any desire to be around a deadbeat who doesn’t even know what city I live in.

One day you might regret never actually knowing me. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, I’m done waiting by the window.

Your oldest son.

Oh yea and dad P.S.

I’d let you go to the worst nursing home in the world before I ever thought to help you.

Oldest son:

A poem about how one transgender man grew up to be the man he wished would have raised him, but own his own.

Meanwhile, I am thirty three,

One would assume it’s about time I get over my chronic case of 

Teenage angst. 

I am not even sure if I  could 

Call it that, anymore. 

Pick your face up off the floor 

Your oldest so became a man

And 

You never had to hold my hand 

I wasn’t potty training until  9 

You never had to lie about my 

Age to hide the statutory 

Rape

But

I would say that I hate you 

add I do 

Repeat that pretty frequently

It’s easier than explaining the

Nothingness I feel  when it

Comes to you

 

I  won’t let anymore of the  

Daughter you never got to knows

Tears fall out of your oldest 

sons eyes

They aren’t mine to cry. 

In high school I struggled 

When the numb feeling would 

Overcome me 

And everything. 

For once I feel nothing, and I don’t

Want to feel anything. 

It’s comforting. 

Back then

I did not yet discover 

My brain had the ick 

And it was you that 

Made me 

S

I

C

K

Poeaxtry’s Link

Portfolio

A few years ago, my partner, our friend, and I went to see the Field of Corn in Dublin, Ohio. It’s a massive field filled with giant concrete cornstalks standing in neat rows. The scale hits you right away. It’s both strange and impressive. Walking through it feels like stepping into a frozen farm, a tribute to Ohio’s farming past that somehow feels both eerie and beautiful.

This past week, I went back alone to check out more sculptures.

Watch House stood out immediately. It’s quiet but intense, almost like it’s watching you as much as you’re watching it. The structure blends with its surroundings in a way that makes you pause and think. There’s a stillness that carries weight, forcing you to be present. And the flower circle around it made me fall in love even though if I stayed any longer I am sure a bee would have gotten me.

I went to see Chief Leather Lips next. This is a powerful sculpture honoring the indigenous people of the area. It has a silent strength, reminding anyone who stands before it of the history buried beneath the ground. It’s solid and dignified, a quiet demand for respect.

At the Dublin Arts Council, I saw several other sculptures.

The Snail caught my eye first. Its smooth, rounded form shows patience and slowing down. In a world that’s always rushing, this little sculpture is a reminder to notice the small details we usually miss.

The Tree of Life is massive, its tangled branches and roots twisting into one another. It represents connection and resilience. How everything in life is linked and how strength can come through struggle.

Beside it stands the Sanguine Standing Stone, a spooky, haunting head sculpture. The face is rough and intense, like it’s pulling deep emotions to the surface. It feels like it’s staring right into your soul, forcing you to face things you’d rather hide.

Finally, Jaunty Hornbeam is a wild, unpredictable figure. It looks like it’s caught mid-dance, awkward and unplanned. It’s messy, human, and a sharp contrast to the more natural pieces around it. It feels like a celebration of being weird and real.

Dublin also has Free Art Boxes scattered throughout town. These are like free little libraries but filled with art supplies. You take what you need, leave what you can. I hit three of these boxes and grabbed everything I needed to start making wildflower magnets.

I stopped at ten free little libraries between Newark and Dublin. I left QR code bookmarks there. Each bookmark has free copies of my ebooks and zines attached. Sharing my work matters to me because someone might pick it up and actually connect.

This trip was about connecting to Dublin, its people, and the quiet creative energy that keeps the city alive. If you’re near Dublin, Ohio, you should check out the Dublin Arts Council sculptures. You can also visit a Free Art Box. Another option is to grab a book from a free little library. You might find something that sticks with you.

All media from trip

all poeaxtry links

This post was prompted by a Substack account literally named “LGBWithoutTheT.”

I wasn’t going to say anything. Then I remembered who threw the first brick. People quickly forget the hands that built their liberation.

Consider this a journal entry, a call-out, and a refusal to be erased.

And for the ones who keep trying to correct me about Marsha P. Johnson. Yes, she was a drag queen. But don’t weaponize that title to strip her of her womanhood or her role in our lineage. You say it like it means she wasn’t trans, like that disqualifies her from this fight.

Let me remind you: they didn’t make names for us back then. We weren’t supposed to exist, they lumped us in boxes for sexual orientations and forgot about gender. So excuse her for only fitting in the box allotted.

They didn’t have the language because they didn’t want us to exist. DUH! They could no longer deny the “sexual orientation” aspect. That is why we always fight together. Yet, some still find it hard to see how we ended up together.

It is erasure in eyeliner and eyeliner in erasure.

– That Tranny Axton

You really think they were out here making neat little identity labels for people they were trying to erase entirely? They shoved us in boxes with the rest of the “undesirables” called us faggots, trannies, freaks, perverts, criminals, and left it at that. We weren’t given nuance because they weren’t interested in letting us live long enough to need it.

They forced us into the same box as the cis gay and lesbian community. Even then, we still fought for you. We stood beside you when no one else would. We understood oppression, and still do. I, for one, know how it moves, how it mutates, how it devours the most vulnerable first.

Still, when it’s time to return that solidarity, a lot of you disappear. You go quiet. Or worse, you join in.

I don’t see many of you showing up when it actually counts… not even for yourselves…. When there’s no parade, no post, no performance, and nothing in it for you. That’s the difference between LGBT & queer, we show up for others you all just show up for beer.

And to be clear, this isn’t an attack on the LGB community as a whole. I do know most of y’all aren’t the ones trying to cut the T off the end of the alphabet. However, bisexual folks have also been erased, belittled, and pushed out of both straight and queer spaces. You know the feeling of being treated like a phase. You understand when you’re seen as a joke. It’s familiar to be considered a threat to the comfort of others. So please consider that when you are transphobic.

This is about the ones who align themselves with exclusion once it starts to advantage them. The ones who climb out of the struggle and turn around to shut the door behind them. It’s not about whom you’re attracted to but, who you’re willing to throw under the bus. Sadly, to feel more palatable to people who never wanted any of us around in the first place. Remember that before you try to put your boots on our necks.

The “LGB without the T” movement is not only a slap in the face. You spit on the memory of our history. Look! There goes the ungrateful child pretending to have raised themselves. We know whose hand was held through the storm. We saw who clothed, fed, and got them safely to where they stand now. It’s galling. The way some cisgender community members will proudly wave rainbow flags and say “We’re finally free.” Wholeheartedly, leaving behind the people who took the first swing at their oppressors. It is cowardice dressed up as “purity politics.” It is erasure in eyeliner and eyeliner in erasure.

You do not get to rewrite history because you’re uncomfortable with the mirror trans people hold up to your face. Marsha P. Johnson, a Black transgender woman, was on the front lines at Stonewall. And not to become a sanitized footnote in your cis-centric, whitewashed retelling. Sylvia Rivera, a Latina trans woman, was screamed at and booed by cis gays when she dared to stand onstage. She told them the truth: trans people were dying while they were sipping cocktails in their freshly legal bars.

The first bricks thrown at Stonewall weren’t chucked by some white suburban gay couple who just wanted to get married. ALso not sorry we never wanted to blend in. They were thrown by trans women of color, by drag queens, by homeless youth, the “too political,” and “too much.” Your comfort was built on our chaos. Your legal rights were carved out of our blood. The very idea of “Pride” was born from our refusal to die quietly. You do not get to inherit our revolution and then evict us from it.

It’s not just historical revision, it’s betrayal. Newsflash, it’s not new. The movement gets close to acceptance, cis LGB folks try to cut the T loose. Like we’re some inconvenient asterisk instead of the architects of your liberation. You wanted our rage when it was marketable and our defiance when it made you feel brave. Yet, now you don’t want our truth when it challenges your false comfort. You want our fashion, our language, our style, our slang, but not our struggle.

Let’s be honest, a lot of you didn’t just forget us. You actively turned your backs. You watched the same system that once crushed you now turn on us, and you looked away. You even joined in, parroting right-wing points like “biological reality” or “just protecting the children.” Without the slightest trace of irony. As if they won’t come for you next. As if they didn’t already.

You try to frame this as a boundary, some protective line drawn around “just LGB issues.” But how can you talk about queerness and not talk about gender? Do you think homophobia just pops up in a vacuum? Don’t you see how much of it is rooted in the fear of people who deviate from gender norms? Effeminate men, masculine women, people who don’t “perform” their gender in a way that straight society deems appropriate? The line between “too gay” and “too trans” is razor-thin and violently enforced. You think they only care who you sleep with, but they care how you walk, talk, and dress. How you take up THEIR space.

And let’s not even pretend this movement is about safety. Nothing makes a space safer than removing the people who’ve been targeted the most, right? Trans people are not the danger. We are the canaries in the coal mine. When our rights start to fall, yours are already next in line. If you think throwing us under the bus will delay the fascists at your door… wrong and next are both words describing you.

So let me say it plain, in a way even the “respectability gays” can’t misinterpret:

You did not build this alone.
You do not get to gatekeep the house we all bled to build.
And you sure as hell don’t get to evict us and redecorate in rainbow pastels.

You are not the only letters that matter. They never were. You only got here because of the ones you now try to cut off the end like a typo. But we are not a mistake. We are not your footnote. We are the reason you get to pretend that’s your flag in the first place.

So if you’re uncomfortable, GOOD. That’s fine. Be uncomfortable. Sit with it. But don’t you dare rewrite the story, and don’t you dare call it unity when you mean uniformity.

Keep it cute. Put it on mute.
Or better yet, keep it honest. Remember who threw the first brick so you could afford to forget it.

This isn’t a debate. It’s a reckoning.

To every trans person reading this: we were never the problem. We are the reason there’s anything to celebrate at all.

To the LGB folks cutting us out:

You can’t take the T out of bigot.

And you sure as hell can’t scrub away the stain it leaves behind.

Today, my mom would’ve turned 54. (As in right now when I type this I’m not sure when I will schedule it to post but)

She was born on July 19, 1971. She passed away on November 8, 2021. That was just eight days before I turned 30. I didn’t know how to prepare for the amount of grief this has churned up. I still don’t. And now here we are, in 2025, almost four years later. I still wake up on this day with that ache in my chest. It’s not just this day; it’s many of them. It’s a lot of them, if I’m being honest.

Some years it hits louder than others. This year, it’s the silence that hurts most. The absence. The way I can’t call her. Knowing I can’t tell her anything new. I just spent the week with my sister exploring the towns around Asheville. I know mom would have loved to hear all about our trips. Time keeps moving. Somehow she’s further and further away. Yet, she’s still here with me in all the ways that matter.

My sisters both turned 21 just a few months after she passed away. I don’t think one of us was really ready. Honestly, is anyone ever really ready. Still, she should’ve seen them grow. She should’ve seen me figure some of this out. She should’ve still been part of the story. My mom should be here!

I carry her with me everywhere I go. In my writing. In the way I talk to strangers. How fiercely I protect the people I love. I think she’d be proud of what I’m doing now. Proud of how I keep going even when it’s hard. Proud of the things I’m building. I know she’d be proud of the love I still have to give. She’s here with me when I hike. I feel her with me when I write. She’s present when I don’t know what to do. I know she’s with me, here in all other moments. But it isn’t the same, and I’d trade my dad any day. I’ll never stop saying that.

Today, I’m just letting myself feel it. The love. The grief. The weight. The memory. It’s really stupid I didn’t think about this date before I scheduled my vacation. I would do anything to still be off work!

Check out my links. Best of Poeaxtry 2025. Buy me a coffee?

Happy birthday, Momma. I love you. I miss you. I always will nothing will change that. I still remember your smile and the way you smelled. The laugh I used to make fun of, and all the quirky expressions you used to make (now Jade makes).

Please come see us soon! I hope your doggo baby made it to you. I know you saw we put jewels collar on the bridge in lake Lure.

After an epic week packed with hiking, climbing, swimming in fresh water and the swimming pool at my sisters. We were running all over hell’s half acre, exploring the hills of Appalachia. Today was a day for much-needed rest. I slept all night long and then slept in until after my sister got off work. She worked the 9 AM to 5 PM shift (yuck). I had the place all to myself during that time.

Even though I planned to go rock hounding, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it alone. It wasn’t that I was confused about which trail to take. I had that mapped out, but, the real problem was what happens after the trail ends. Once I got off the trail, there would be no service for my GPS. I’ve already experienced that all week. The idea of wandering through those hills, and getting lost, was honestly scary. Since at least my sister knew how to get us back towards her house and service to load the map.

I mean, what if I took a wrong turn in the woods and got kidnapped by feral mountain creatures? Or worse… what if I found myself stuck in some endless loop of forest and couldn’t find my car? If I managed to get to my car, would I remember the way back to the apartment? I know I can’t navigate without GPS? Yeah, my mind goes there.

I stayed put. I didn’t want to leave my sister’s door unlocked while she was at work. Also, I wasn’t about to wander around the woods with zero signal or company. The spots we saved on the map will still be there next time. Then I won’t be alone and she can come with me.

Honestly, after a week full of adventure, I was wiped out and needed the rest more than anything. I had to prepare for the long drive home, too, which was still ahead. I woke up when my sister got home from work. She had another shift the next morning, so the house was quiet. I finally left late the next morning after sleeping until about 8 am. It was my own slow, reluctant goodbye to the mountains. The temper tantrum internally because GOD DAMN! I really have to go back to OHIO!

The best part of adventure is knowing when to pause, rest, and prepare for the next one. So you don’t over do it and have to postpone the next one or more.

Much love,

Axton N.O. Mitchell

My trip home was a little different than announced. You know as usual. If you didn’t notice I post these the day after so I’m technically home right now. And I also didn’t make a day one post for the real day one because I drove the entire night before so we all just hung out,

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Day 4 in Hendersonville, North Carolina was a slower, more relaxed day than the earlier ones. Honestly, I slept in much later than expected. The trip had caught up with me, and I was completely wiped out. Sometimes travel exhaustion hits hard, and you just have to honor that. I even slept til 6 pm on day 6, my sister had to go to work. I was planning to go off the grid. But, I don’t have Luna with me. I was afraid to do it alone.

Once I finally got moving, the day turned into a laid-back exploration of some of Hendersonville’s coolest local spots.

We started with the Appalachian Pinball Museum, which felt like stepping into a retro time capsule. There’s something so satisfying about the sound of vintage pinball machines clacking and bouncing. This space brought back so many memories and gave the day a nostalgic, playful energy. 13 dollars all day free play $1 sodas how can you beat that.

Afterward, we wandered the streets, admiring the vibrant chalk art murals and sidewalk drawings scattered throughout town. These little pop-up galleries of color and creativity brought unexpected brightness to ordinary sidewalks. They turned our walk into a visual adventure.

One of my favorite discoveries were the painted bear statues peppered throughout Hendersonville. Each bear has a unique design and personality. They had some whimsical, others bold and abstract. Seeing them all around town gave the place a quirky feel. It felt welcoming, like the city itself is giving you a friendly nod.

To cap off the day, we stopped at Sweet Frog for some delicious frozen yogurt. After the slow start, the frozen yogurt felt like the perfect little reward, sweet and refreshing. It was just what we needed to keep the daylight and fun.

Videos and Journals:

I’ve been uploading videos for each day the day after they happen. If you want to see Day 4 in motion, you can check out my TikTok. It includes everything from pinball flips to colorful chalk and painted bears. My Instagram also has these highlights. You can also check my other socials. (@Poeaxtry_). I love sharing those moments because they bring the places to life beyond words.

The more detailed hiking and adventure journal posts usually come either the morning or night after the day’s adventures. I can take a little time to think. I organize my thoughts. I write from a fresh but still vivid perspective.

What’s next?

Day 5 videos already up (this post is late) full of waterfalls, quiet nature, and sunsets. Thanks for tracking along on this trip. Thank you for being part of the journey even from afar. I appreciate you letting me share these small but meaningful moments.

Interviewing Myself: Who Am I?

Q: What are you about?

I stand for empathy, kindness, and radical inclusion. I fight for the right to be different and believe every human deserves equality and respect. My morals are rooted in advocacy and dismantling discrimination in all its ugly forms. I was 7 years old. I first remember my mom explaining to me why I shouldn’t treat her clients differently. & from that moment on, I knew bullying was wrong. That is truly sad when you think about the time some of you learned this.

Q: What hobbies and interests fuel you?

Poetry, rock hounding, rock tumbling, spell crafting, hiking, kayaking, camping, fishing, and so much more. I thrive in creative flow and nature’s raw energy. I excel in the heat and dirt; when sweat is covering my hair and shirt.

Q: Outside writing and creating, what excites you?

Swim, kayak, hang out with my doggy and the kitties. Witchcraft, reading, and playing video games.

Q: What are you definitely not about?

Bullies, especially adult ones. Racism, homophobia, transphobia, sexism, fascism. You know what, actually, fuck all phobias and ism bullshit and those who embody them. I can’t stand the cold; meaning the air and your tude.

Q: What adjectives do not describe you?

Quiet, boring, afraid. Just to name a few.

Q: What don’t you want people to think about you?

That I’m someone who tolerates inequality or doesn’t fight for the rights of everyone in humanity. I have always been one to know all humanity is equal and deserving I’d hate someone think the opposite.

Q: What are your defining characteristics?

Empathy, kindness, and the ability to include and uplift everyone. My loud ass mouth and my yellow ass attitude.

Q: What do friends and family say about you?

They call me hyper, loved, soft, a golden retriever, a good man, poetic, passionate, and an advocate. Someone who they can depend on.

Q: What are your core values?

Advocacy for policies that protect human rights, commitment to dismantling discrimination, activism, and honoring the diversity of human experience.

Q: What causes matter most to you?

Human rights, abortion access, marriage equality, healthcare justice, and the fight against harmful legislation as a whole. Ending the bullshit minorities are facing from Gaza to Ukraine and back to The USA.

Q: Are these central to your brand and goals?

Absolutely. I wouldn’t be me and my brand wouldn’t be by me if it weren’t. Would it?

Q: What’s unique about you?

I was a boy with boobies. I have a serious vitamin D deficiency. It makes me take a boatload of supplements. The creator forgot my other D too. So the struggle is real.

Q: What are your short-term and long-term goals?

Short-term: Keep creating new solo and collaborative projects, and grow my community.

Long-term: Build a name and a publishing press that uplifts minorities and pays them fairly for their incredible work.

Q: What are your strengths?

I lead with empathy. While I hold space for grief, rage, softness, and transformation. I’m an advocate, especially for those who are silenced, overlooked, or underestimated. My creativity is wide-reaching and adaptable. I’m deeply intuitive. I connect dots most people miss. I build community in a way that makes people feel like they belong. I live my life with resilience, knowing I can be the storm or the calm sky. And more. Always more.

Q: Is there one thing you do exceptionally well?

Yeah. I take chaos and turn it into clarity. Whether it’s through a poem, a piece of handmade rock art, or helping someone feel seen. I try to take the raw, messy, painful stuff and turn it into something honest, haunting, and healing. And sometimes even beautiful.

Q: What impact do you want to make?

I want to foster real change. I want people to see me. I want them to realize, “Hey, I know someone trans.” There are more of us than you think, even if you don’t see us. Passing doesn’t matter, visibility does. Just because you don’t know every trans person is trans doesn’t make us exist any less.

Q: Do your personal and business brands overlap?

Completely. In more ways than one. I couldn’t think of business model names or my future platforms because I just incorporate all of me.

Q: Why are you building a personal brand?

To foster change, help others, and bring my authentic self and community together.

Q: Are you breaking into the creator economy?

Hell yes. I can only hope.

Q: Are you building a business, a product, or a space?

All of it of course. I have a business, products, and a space for connection and growth.

Q: Are you creating a professional image to secure funding or partnerships?

I hope so, but mostly to help and uplift others.

Q: How will you create unique value for your audience?

A: By blending literature, identity, and honesty into interactive work. My poetry, zines, e-books, and collaboration projects with meaning. I don’t just share; I connect. I create spaces where people feel seen, and remind them that their voice matters. While also giving them a place to share and a platform to publish on.

links. portfolio. ko-fi. Payhip.

🧿 HEXON PIRATES™

and anyone who lies their way into free things without holding up their end.

This work is protected. Not just by law. Not just by copyright. But by the kind of energy you don’t wanna test.

If you received any item for review, you agreed to leave a review. If you downloaded it for free, or received it free, you were trusted to honor that gift. If you bought it, you supported a living, breathing creator, and I thank you.

But if you:

• Lied to get a free copy and never reviewed it

• Forwarded it to friends without permission

• Uploaded it to some free-for-all site

• Took screenshots or pages and gave them away

• Tried to “share the love” without sharing the credit

Then congratulations!!! 🎊 you’ve activated the HEXON PIRATES™ clause.

You’ve chosen to steal from someone who puts protections into every line. This isn’t just art. This is spellwork. Bloodwork. Boundary.

You’ve crossed it.

🕯️ What happens next is not mine to decide. It’s already been decided. 🕯️

So go ahead. Eat the rich. But don’t come for the little indie poet.

Not unless you’re ready to feel what gets thrown back.

Links poem