Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: dailyprompt

  • My ideal rough week and Earth’s Hidden Gems

    My ideal rough week and Earth’s Hidden Gems

    Describe your ideal week.

    There’s nothing like a week dedicated to hunting beauty. Whether that is from the rocks I am hounding or the falls we are chasing. We are surrounded by natural beauty and creative inspiration. My ideal l getaway unfolds somewhere with diverse geology. A place where I can find fossils in the morning and crystals or semiprecious stones in the afternoon, all while soaking in breathtaking landscapes and the suns rays.

    Dawn to Midday: The Hunt

    Each morning starts with Luna’s cold nose nudging me awake as first light filters through the tent. Kelsey stirs beside me, already reaching for the camp stove to brew coffee. Our campsite sits far from designated campgrounds and tourist trails just wilderness, silence, and possibility. Oh yea and a composting toilet.

    After a quick breakfast, I grab my field kit. The essentials hammers, chisels, brushes, and collection bags organized for efficiency or just Aldi bags (if I’m being honest). The morning hours belong to serious specimen hunting, when my eyes are a little more sharp and my patience abundant. Some days I explore exposed rock faces rich with marine fossils; other days I sift through creek beds for tumbled treasures or I chip carefully at promising outcroppings.

    Luna explores nearby, occasionally bringing me sticks instead of rocks (still working on her training after all this time). We like it out here since she doesn’t need a leash. My partner alternates between helping me search and capturing the landscape through their camera lens. We work in comfortable silence, occasionally calling each other over when something interesting appears.

    Midday to Afternoon: Water and Wonder

    When the sun climbs high and the day heats up, we transition to water exploration. A series of waterfalls create the perfect swimming holes. There are some shallow enough for Luna to splash in, others deep enough for proper diving. The cold water shocks against sun-warmed skin, creating that perfect contrast that makes you feel completely in the moment.

    After swimming, we spread our morning’s finds across sun-heated rocks to dry and examine. I pull out my loupe to inspect the details of particularly interesting specimens or finds. I love the crystalline structure of a geode, the delicate imprint of an ancient fern, and the perfect spirals of a fossil shell. Each piece tells a story millions of years in the making.

    Evening Rituals: Fire and Flow

    As afternoon fades, we return to camp to prepare for evening. May i build the perfect campfire while Kelso seasons thick-cut steaks with just rosemary, salt, and pepper. The simple preparation lets the quality of the meat speak for itself when it sizzles over open flames.

    With dinner preparations underway, I settle into my hammock strung between two sturdy pine trees. This is when I roll a blunt of quality green, taking slow, appreciative draws as I flip through my journal to go over notes for the day’s finds. The combination of physical exertion, successful discoveries, and gentle relaxation creates the perfect mindset for creativity.

    As twilight deepens, we feast on perfectly flame cooked steaks and fire-roasted vegetables. Luna lies nearby, gnawing contentedly on her own special treat, occasionally looking up to ensure her humans are still present.

    After dinner, the campfire becomes our center. My partner roasts marshmallows for s’mores while I pull out my laptop, the words flowing more freely here than they ever do in civilization. Poems about ancient oceans, the patience of stone, and the fleeting nature of human existence emerge onto the page.

    Days of Discovery

    Each day follows this rhythm but with different locations to explore. One day might focus on sedimentary layers rich with fossils; another might take us to mineral veins in metamorphic rock. We hike to panoramic overlooks where the landscape reveals its geological story in exposed strata.

    In the evenings, we alternate between different campsites, each offering its own unique character. We spend one night beside a waterfall, another on a ridge with sunset views, a third in a grove of ancient trees whose roots have witnessed centuries.

    The Essence of Escape

    What makes this week ideal isn’t just the specimens collected, though my bags grow heavier with treasures each day. It’s the rhythm of existence dictated by sunlight rather than screens, the deep conversations that emerge around campfires, and the way that disconnecting from everything else connects me more deeply to what matters: creativity, companionship, and the ancient stories told by stones.

    As the week concludes, I carefully wrap each specimen in paper, noting observations. But the real treasures are the filled digital journal pages, the renewed connection with kelso, Luna’s evident joy, and the lingering sense of peace that comes from a week lived exactly as we choose.

    This is freedom: rocks, water, words, love, and enough green to keep the edges soft. This is my ideal week.

    We all wear masks metaphorically speaking

    Poeaxtry’s🔗

  • Are You Holding a Grudge? When Grief Becomes Sacred Anger

    Are You Holding a Grudge? When Grief Becomes Sacred Anger

    Are you holding a grudge? About?

    Yeah, I’m holding a grudge. A big fucking one.

    I’m holding a grudge against whatever deity, universe, or cosmic force decided it was okay for my mother to die when I was only 30. Actually, twenty-nine. It has been almost four damn years. I can’t believe it was eight days before my birthday and before my twin sister’s her youngest children were even 21. 

    And you know what? I will forever hold this grudge against whatever divine being made that choice. Because fuck them for taking the only thing I had to rely on, the only parent I ever really had.

    When Grief Becomes a Grudge:

    There’s something raw about admitting you’re angry at God, at fate, at the universe itself. Society tells us to “let go,” to “find peace,” to “accept what we cannot change.” But sometimes a grudge isn’t just anger…it’s love with nowhere to go.

    My grudge isn’t really about hatred. It’s about the unfairness of losing your anchor when you barely feel enough to understand what an anchor even is. It’s about growing old with a mother-shaped hole that no amount of hiking, poetry, self-help books, or well-meaning advice can fill.

    The Poetry of Anger

    In the witchy, spiritual communities I often steer clear of there’s a lot of pressure to be “love and light” all the time. But what about love and rage? What about the sacred anger that comes from being robbed of something precious?

    My grudge is a form of devotion. It says: “She mattered. Her absence matters. The injustice of her early death matters.” How the fuck is it fair she gets to die right after she experiences happiness? Right when she got clean? Like you have to be kidding me!

    Some grudges are worth holding and not because they serve us, but because they honor what we’ve lost.

    Questions for Your Own Journey:

    • What grudges are you carrying that might actually be love in disguise?
    • How do you honor your losses while still moving forward?
    • When has anger been a teacher rather than a burden?

    Sometimes the most honest spiritual practice isn’t forgiveness—it’s admitting that some wounds change us forever, and that’s okay too.

    Links

  • 30 Things That Make Me Happy especially if I’m Fried

    30 Things That Make Me Happy especially if I’m Fried

    List 30 things that make you happy.

    I don’t wake up every day smiling. Life’s not that kind. But even on my worst day. The one where the burn-out threatens to walk away. The overstimulated days, when even thoughts are too much. The “why the hell am I even doing this” days. I know joy still lives in me. It’s not always some big outrageous show. Often it is quiet and small. Unhinged. Chaotic. Soft. Real.

    The following is my attempt at giving at least some of them names(no particular order).

    1. My partner Kelso, and the life we built together It isn’t perfect, and we never wanted perfect anyway. What we’ve got is real. It’s soft, it’s loud, it’s safe, it’s feral, it’s growing. They see me in ways that no one else does, and they stay. That alone makes this entire messy ride feel like something worth holding onto. I’d build this weird-ass little world again with them every time.

    2. My mom and everything she stood for, taught me, and lived by. She wasn’t the kind of person you forget. She loved out loud, stood her ground, held her people up and never backed down from what she stood on. What she believed, she lived, and what she lived, she passed to me whether she meant to or not. Some days I hear her in the way I talk to people. Other days I see her in the mirror. She’s gone, but her backbone is stitched into mine.

    3. My sisters, even if they will grey me early. They’re twins and always have been chaos. A just shy of a decade younger and somehow one acts older half the time. They have always known every button to push, and they push them with glee. But underneath all that noise, there’s a kind of loyalty and bond that’s built into the marrow. They were annoying and loud and infuriating but so very irreplaceable.

    4. My friends, past and present I’m not one of those “cut off forever” people. Even if we fell out, even if we haven’t talked in years, even if the love had to turn silent. It was and is still love. Some folks just can’t sit at my table anymore or ever again. Doesn’t mean I don’t wish them well from way over here.

    5. My dog Luna and the kitty men. There’s no part of my life untouched by my animals. Luna’s nose on my hand when I’m crying. The cats headbutting me for attention Luna pulling me through dirt paths lined with tree after I’ve worked three doubles. They remind me to eat. To stop. To breathe. To laugh. That kind of love is pure.

    6. When different minorities come together despite our differences. Watching Black, brown, Indigenous, disabled, neurodivergent, queer, trans folks stand beside each other is freeing, instead of fighting for scraps. This is by far one of the most healing things I’ve witnessed. There’s something sacred about that kind of alliance. It doesn’t erase pain, but it makes space for all of us.

    7. Pop punk, especially Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, and all those dope-ass covers from Punk Goes pop/Country/rock/etc. That shit raised me. I was a hoodie-and-headphones kid, screaming lyrics into the void like they were gospel. I still blast it driving through Ohio backroads,and it feels as if the ghosts of my teenage self is riding shotgun. The first album I remember asking for was definitely “From Under the Cork Tree.”

    8. Poetry, literature, journaling… language in all its forms. I don’t always know how to say things out loud, but I always find a way to write it. Words don’t always make sense when I speak them. When I write they land. They hold space. Take your breath and then they finally breathe.

    9. Hiking, rockhounding, exploring new places or old, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I just need to wander. Whether it’s a trail I’ve walked a dozen times or a new spot I found on a whim, there’s peace in the motion. In the quiet. In the discovery. Especially when I’m out rockhounding in Ohio and stumble across a fossil or pocket of quartz.

    10. When I am turning rock finds into something beautiful There’s something powerful in taking something raw and jagged from the ground and shaping it into a polished, glimmering little thing. Tumbling, slicing, sanding it’s not just a hobby. It’s transformation. I’ve pulled creekside stones from Wheeling, West Virginia and turned them into altar pieces.

    11. Spirituality, witchcraft, and nature None of its performative. It’s grounding. It’s ritual. It’s the hum I hear when I’m still enough to listen. My practice isn’t about aesthetics, it’s about stitching the world back together in a way that makes sense to me.

    12. My residents, past present and future. They’ve seen more than I ever will. Even when they forget my name. Even when they’re mean. Even when I’m stretched too thin and they’re dying in front of me. They’re still people worth knowing. And I’m honored every damn time I get to know them.

    13. Some of the nurses and aides I’ve worked with over the years. Not all, not most, but my few homies. The ones who get it? They become your lifeline. They joke with you, cry with you, hold the line with you. They’re the ones keeping it all afloat when the higher-ups are just checking boxes. And if you’re lucky enough you’re able to extend a lot of that beyond work.

    14.. Geek Bars… the banana taffy is the one. Yes, it’s nicotine. Yes, it’s artificial. No, I don’t care. Banana taffy is joy in vapor form.

    15. Weeds, flowers, carts, edibles, all of it Indica or hybrid, please and thank you. My brain’s already an overclocked mess; I’m not trying to blast off with a sativa. I just want to calm down and breathe again.

    16. The mountains and their views, the air, the cold streams in North Carolina. Even when I am driving through the southeastern Ohio hills or heading down past Yellow Springs, the landscape changes your chest. The air is sharper. Cleaner. The water’s so cold it feels holy. I feel more me up there. Well honestly anywhere in nature.

    17. Video games, especially Far Cry and Fortnite. I want story, chaos, bright colors, explosions, and weird-ass side missions. Far Cry’s my jam, and Fortnite’s my candy. And I love to use emotes to be extra sassy!

    18. Long drives with good music. Whether I’m chasing sunsets through Ohio or driving toward nowhere just to move, those drives are my church. Sometimes it’s just me and Luna. Other times, it’s the right people. The destination isn’t always the point. The feeling is.

    19. Yellow. Just the color yellow. It’s been my favorite forever. It feels like a mood lifeline. As if I can’t quite sink if I can still see yellow.

    20.. Kayaking, Whether I’m out on the lakes or on the river trails back home in Wheeling, WV, there’s something about floating. Something about being held by the water, that quiets me. That realigns me.

    21.. My partner’s family. They didn’t just tolerate me, they welcomed me. My sisters-in-law, my niece, my nephew… they feel like people I was supposed to know all along.

    22. Reptiles, amphibians, snakes I’ll die on the hill that snakes have personalities. The texture of a lizard’s skin, the slow blink of a gecko, the vibe of a chill ball python all beautiful. And something’s that bring me joy. That’s connection.

    23. Studying religion and history. Not to argue or prove anything. Just to know. Just to understand what’s shaped the world, and why.

    24.. My Honda Civic. It was my mom’s favorite car make, but to me? That thing is freedom. Reliable, efficient, mine. Honda gang for life.

    25.. Early morning hours before the world wakes. That weird liminal time between 4 a.m. and sunrise, when everything is quiet and painted in slow pinks and oranges? That’s my peace. That’s when the noise quiets.

    26. Hoodie and shorts weather Hot legs, cold arms. Chill breeze, sunny sky. Perfection. Classic ADHD comfort combo.

    27. A good bookbag Give me one with secret pockets and big compartments and the ability to carry rocks and snacks and my journal. I’ll never stop hunting for the perfect one.

    28. Etnies, PacSun, Hot Topic, Spencer’s all the early 2000s alt mall-core. Yea I am still a poser, still proud. That was my era. And every time I wear some chunky skater shoes or a black hoodie with chains? I’m home.

    29. Yellow Springs, Ohio The energy in that town is unmatched. It’s weird, welcoming, radical, artistic, it feels like a pocket of the world where I can just be.

    30. Scary books and horror movies, especially splatterpunk and realistic gore Give me the anatomy right. Give me blood that makes sense. I don’t want shiny CGI. I want words that paint images so vivid they feel like memory. Horror is how I process.

    Joy doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be pretty. It doesn’t even have to make sense to anyone but me.It is simply holding a smooth piece of quartz I found in an Ohio stream. And it’s yelling emo lyrics into the wind on a backroad. Sometimes it’s Luna licking my face when I can’t get out of bed.

    All of that is real. All of that is joy. And all of that is enough.

    Links ko-fi

  • The Habit That Makes Me Happiest: Adventuring

    The Habit That Makes Me Happiest: Adventuring

    Describe one habit that brings you joy.

    There’s no better way to clean off the week like dirt under your nails and sunburn on your shoulders. Fresh freckles on my cheeks and nose, but that’s nothing new. No version of peace that beats the kind you find halfway down a trail, ready to see the car, as much as you were the view. A fossil in one hand and your dog always remaining leashed by your side.

    I don’t vacation for typical relaxation. I adventure. I explore. I curate memories, things at one point were but a dream.

    I don’t check into resorts. I throw a sleeping bag into the backseat and head for whichever trail, lake, ridge, or overlook is calling loudest. I don’t go places to unwind like you’d expect. I go places to become more alive. The woods are not a break from life. They are life. The oceans, seas, deserts, mountains, plains, rivers, and lakes all offer beauty. You have to be willing to go deeper.

    Adventuring is the one habit that makes me happiest because it folds everything I love into one experience: gathering, building, creating, feeling, moving, being. It’s my relationship with the world, my self-care, my work, my worship, my art, and my rest. Yes, all at once. And sometimes separately.

    When I head out, I’m not just walking. I’m searching ways to make what’s around of use. I search for bones to clean and keep, herbs to dry and use(locally grown or to plant my own), flowers to press into pages. I’m rock hounding, fossil hunting, kneeling down in red dirt, eyes scanning every inch for something ancient to bring home. I don’t just collect. I connect. These aren’t souvenirs. These are materials, memories, tools, altarpieces, offerings. Even turning items into finished store products.

    When I kayak, it’s not a sport, it’s a baptism. Gliding over still water surrounded by trees is a kind of peace hard to match. My phone’s off. The only sound is the paddle and the wind. If you’re lucky sometimes a heron lifting off from the reeds will share his majestic beauty. I’ve found pieces of myself in those silent stretches of lake that I didn’t even know I’d lost.

    When I hike, I’m in conversation, with the land, with myself, and with something older than both. I might be alone. I might be with my dog, who doesn’t just walk with me, she teaches me to stop, and to watch. Or I’m with a friend, the kind who knows how to move in rhythm with the land and say everything without speaking. Even in moments we fill with loudness and goofiness the deeper meaning isn’t lost on us.

    Camping is something I’ve done all my life. It started as a family thing when I was a kid, and it never left me. Now, I want to start camping rustically.Right now I have always paid for a campsite and pitch my tent like it’s home for the time being. Sometimes it’s a hammock strung up on two trees. I have typically always camped with friends (when not family) laughing around a fire, sharing stories under the stars, cooking simple meals that somehow always taste better outside. I love camping in every form it takes. I love the rhythm of it, the setup, the simplicity, the quiet. I plan to do a lot more of it because it’s one of the few places where I feel completely myself, without noise, without pressure, just present.

    When I forage, I do it with reverence. Herbs aren’t just ingredients, they’re living history. I gather with care and intention, never taking more than I should, always thanking the plant and the place. I also always leave behind an offering. Some herbs go into spells, some into bundles, some into zines or handmade kits. I’ve blended wild mint and clover into teas. I’ve used dried mugwort for protection work. Every sprig, every root has a role.

    Bones, too, when and if I find them, are sacred. I don’t take death lightly. When I gather bone, it’s with deep respect. Cleaned properly, they become part of my altar or are used as symbols in ritual or art. Each one carries weight. Each one tells a story I want to honor.

    I press flowers like love notes. I stash them between paper scraps and books, wait weeks, and then pull them out as offerings, to beauty, to memory, to whoever needs that small, delicate piece of magic. Those pressed pieces end up in journals, zines, altars, even product packaging. They’re remnants of a day I lived fully and chose to remember. I started keeping a flower journal on my last trip, and hope to continue that tradition on future trips.

    Everything I find out here becomes something. Nothing goes to waste. I don’t need stores. I need open fields. I don’t need supplies shipped in plastic! I need time in wild places with my hands in the dirt and a bag full of whatever the land is ready to give me.

    My creative work lives because I adventure. My business exists because I go out, gather, and make. Zines, ebooks, wind chimes , raw or tumbled stones, spell pouches, poetic extras, almost all of my items come from what I collect on these trips. Not just objects, but moments.

    This habit doesn’t just make me happy. It is happiness. Which is honestly how it became my business. I want to do what I love, and fill it with love.

    It saves me money. It gives me everything I need. It lets me spend real time with my dog and my friends without distractions, without pressure. It keeps me off screens. It gives me room to think and space to breathe.

    It lets me be a poet in love with the world. And I don’t mean that metaphorically.

    I treat the wilderness the way poet treats a muse: obsessively, gently, worshipfully. I follow it, I wait for it, I let it change me. I bring it offerings and ask for nothing back, but somehow it always gives me more than I came for.

    I know its moods. I listen when it’s quiet. I celebrate when it’s loud. I show up even when it doesn’t feel like showing off.

    Adventuring isn’t my escape from the world. See through my eyes and you see, it’s how I enter it.

    So no I don’t vacation in the typical sense. I go out to plug into the only thing that ever really matters to me: the land, the stories it tells, and the way I get to become part of them.

    If you’ve ever wondered what kind of life you’d build if you let the wilderness guide you, this is mine. Not perfect. Not polished. But full of magic, movement, meaning, and dirt. Always, always dirt.

    Links Coffee a song?

    Hiking? Hocking?

  • How Do You Sleep at Night After your hypocrisy?

    How Do You Sleep at Night After your hypocrisy?

    What are you curious about?

    I’ve worn a lot of faces people projected onto me.

    Straight girl. Dyke. Butch. Femme. Delicate. Dangerous. Confused. Attention-seeking. Pervert. Confused again.

    Now: trans man, neurodivergent, loud, too political, somehow “too much” and “not enough” at the same time. And still confused.

    I’ve seen all sides of this thing. I’ve watched people turn their heads when it wasn’t their kind of pain.

    I’ve been told I’m part of the family until I say one true thing too loud, and then suddenly I’m disposable. I’ve lived through poverty so deep it rewires your brain. Go check out some of wheeling and tell me I didn’t. I’ve held my breath through trauma stacked on top of survival stacked on top of systems that were never built for me.

    And somehow… even after all of that,

    I still can’t understand how any marginalized person can weaponize power the minute they get a little of it. I’m really asking here. How do you explain away your bigotry when you are still locked out? You do get that don’t you?

    What mental gymnastics do you have to perform to make it okay when you’re doing it? Do you think you’re “just being realistic”? Do you call it “nuance”? Is it a kind of safety? Self-protection? Power-lust? Do you feel it when you do it? When you side with the abuser? Do you understand the excuses you used are the same ones used against you?

    When you push down someone even further beneath you in the pecking order you swore you didn’t believe in?Do you sleep easier with that boot on your foot instead of on your throat?

    Because me…

    I still flinch when I hear certain words come out of certain mouths. Even if the words are none of my concern. I still scan rooms for exits. I still don’t fully know what it’s like to feel safe in public as just myself.

    I still shake when someone tries to take my humanity and dress it up like a political debate. I will always live in intersectionality whether I want to or not. I can’t peel off my gender’s history or identity. I can’t unlive being poor. I can’t “grow out of” neurodivergence. I didn’t choose to be a minority from multiple directions. Though, there is no problem with existing as you are.

    But I also never chose to become like the ones who tried to erase me. So again, I’m asking:

    What does that feel like, when you know better and still choose worse? When you say you care about justice but it stops at your reflection? When your version of progress leaves entire groups behind? When you build your acceptance off someone else’s erasure?

    Do you look in the mirror and think:

    “This is what survival made me”?

    Or are you still calling it pride?

    Because here’s the truth:

    I know what it feels like to be left out of even the most “inclusive” movements. I know what it feels like to be used as proof of diversity while being erased in every real decision. I know what it feels like to be expected to understand everyone else’s pain while mine is mocked or ignored! And I’ve never once, not once, thought that meant I should make anyone else feel the same.

    So again. Color me curious. Genuinely. What do you tell yourself to make it okay when you silence others, shame others, turn your back on people you once stood beside?How do you justify it? What stories do you spin to soothe your guilt? If you even feel it!

    Because me? I still carry the names of those I watched suffocate. I still carry the weight of what was done to me. But I also carry the weight of what I refuse to do to anyone else. And I wonder if you ever think about that, when your feet are wearing the boots now.

    And I’m losing my breath underneath it.

    Links Portfolio uhhh discord?

    Let’s hike? Read a poem?

    Feeling emotional?

  • Still Growing: How I’d Describe Myself, Honestly

    Still Growing: How I’d Describe Myself, Honestly

    How would you describe yourself to someone?

    Describing yourself to someone else isn’t always easy and especially when you’re made of a million pieces. Some are polished like my tumbled stones and some still lost in stage’s in-between. Some of my pieces sit quietly. Though, most are able to be heard well before being seen. If you really want to know me, here’s what I’d say:

    I’m a transgender man, a poet and a brother. I am someone who’s lived more lives than years and still chooses love every time. I’m a little wild around the edges but hold a huge interests is things bigger than myself. I’m the kind of person who sees beauty in broken things and meaning in the mundane. A rockhound, literally and metaphorically speaking. I find clarity in chaos and treasures in the dirt. I’ve always found peace in nature’s small wonders, whether it’s a strange fossil in a ohio, a waterfall along the road in North Carolina, a field of wildflowers, or the hush of a quiet morning with no one around.

    I’m a pet dad and an animal lover through and through. My heart stays full because of the furry ones that trust me to protect and care for them. I’m a fiancé, a son, a momma’s boy in every way that matters, and someone who’s learned how to carry a big heart inside even bigger walls. They exist not to keep people out forever, but to make sure what comes in is real and worthy.

    I work as an STNA in Ohio. It’s an honest job that reminds me daily of the fragility and strength of being human. I’m queer and neurodivergent, which means I see the world differently in many ways. Sometimes my thoughts drift, sometimes I hyperfocus, sometimes I forget where I was going mid-sentence. I call it my squirrel, but I always circle back to what matters. I’m easily amused, deeply emotional, and hard to knock down for good.

    I call it like I see it. And I know I am one hundred percent not for everyone. I don’t lie about who I am. I’ve survived abuse, addiction, mental illness, and more than my fair share of days that almost ended me. And yet I’m still here still as ever curious, still kicking, and still kayaking down rivers like they owe me answers. I’ve always loved a little danger, a little chaos, and a lot of loudness. Pop-punk is home for me: shouty lyrics, raw feelings, and the unapologetic right to feel everything too much.

    I’m an activist, not because it’s trendy, but because silence has never saved anybody. I believe in showing up for all people, for justice, for love, especially if it’s hard. I support human rights because mine have been denied, delayed, and debated too many times not to.

    And above all else, I’m a human being. I am not a checklist of identities or a walking experience for others to analyze. Just a person doing his best with what life’s handed him. I laugh, I mess up, I start over, I love hard, and sometimes I fall apart. The best part? I keep showing up. And I hope that counts for something. I will always.

    So, how would I describe myself? I’m someone still in motion. I am actively making space in a world that wasn’t built for people like me, but damn sure isn’t ready for what I bring to the table either. I’m full of contradictions, full of love, and full of fight. And if you don’t get it… well, keep it cute, or put it on mute.

    Links. Discord. A song

    Another prompt

  • Future Travel Plans: Permit Hikes, Rockhounding, and Yearly Return to WNC

    Future Travel Plans: Permit Hikes, Rockhounding, and Yearly Return to WNC

    What are your future travel plans?

    Every year, without fail, I make a point to return to western North Carolina, usually in January (before this year). To see my sister It was a personal promise, to my mom. Now it is a form of spiritual maintenance, and something I know will never change unless my sister moves. The Blue Ridge Mountains are already calling me back, and I’ve been home less than a week. Yet I already know I will answer. Still, before WNC see’s me, I have several other trips locked in that I’m really excited about.

    Trip one:

    On August 7th, 2025, I’ll be exploring permit only hikes in and around Hocking Hills, Ohio. This will consist of us completing three out of four of the permit-only areas. I’ve been approved already, and the sign-up is free on the Ohio DNR website. My buddy and her little kiddo will be joining me. We’ll be exploring Boch Hollow specifically Laurel Falls, Little Rocky Hollow, and the Saltpetre Cave State Nature Preserve. These aren’t your typical walk-in hikes. They’re protected, limited-access preserves that need permits to guarantee the safety of the biodiverse natural areas. I’m incredibly grateful to understand and respect the importance of maintaining the natural ecosystem’s integrity. Permits in Ohio are mainly for monitoring foot traffic. They help preserve these specific biodiversity areas and preserves.

    Trip Two

    Just a few days later, on August 12th, I’ll be heading up to Cuyahoga Valley National Park (CVNP) in Cleveland. I’m meeting up with a friend to explore for the day. The Ledges Trail is already on the itinerary. We plan to fill the day with more stops inside CVNP. Then we’ll explore along Lake Erie afterward. There’s potential to do rock hounding. I’m hoping to discover some lake-worn treasures. I even find fossils during the visit. As well as definitely chasing some waterfalls and Ohio ledges.

    Future plans

    Before September, or in early September, my pal and I hope to go backwoods camping in Virginia. Maybe her kiddo will join too. The spot is close to the Devil’s Bathtub area. It will be at minimum 200 units (I can’t recall if it was meters or feet) from the water. The area is known for its beauty. It boasts a waterfall into a clear, freezing swimming hole. If you didn’t know, legend states this is the only water source cold enough to bathe the devil. Sadly, this plan isn’t locked in just yet. Though, it’s something I hope comes together fully.

    Beyond those specific date or places, I’ve been collecting a list of nearby destinations. These places are across Indiana, Kentucky, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Ohio. They all are less than or equal to 5 hours from home each way. These include hidden waterfalls, scenic overlooks, historical fossil sites, quirky statues, and other neat things. I like to travel spontaneously, so this is probably as “planned” in the future as I get. If you exclude my annual western North Carolina trip to see my sister.

    Port Huron

    I’ve also had Port Huron and Petoskey, Michigan on my mind. The idea of finding real Petoskey stones excites me. I do not want to barter for them, which is enough to almost make me head there now. I find the idea of exploring the Lake Huron shoreline to be incredibly appealing. Between the lake stones, fossils, and the open water, it feels like the perfect mix of grounding and adventure.

    Nature, movement, and discovery are always part of my year. I make space for new trails, new stones, and new memories. Whether it’s a permitted hike in Ohio or a spontaneous camping trip in Virginia, I embrace new adventures. Even if my travel plans shift along the way, my commitment to exploration never fades. I have a deep lust for wonder.

  • I’m Not an Authority. I Don’t Want to Be.

    I’m Not an Authority. I Don’t Want to Be.

    On what subject(s) are you an authority?

    What does that even mean? “Authority on a subject?” Who decided that’s a thing we should care about? Who benefits from that idea?

    The thoughts I have when you say someone is an authority, make me want to ask… what makes them one? Experience? Is it how many books they’ve read yet, never quite comprehended? Is it how confidently they speak, how loudly they interrupt, how many years they’ve had to convince everyone they know something better than you? Is it the shade of skin they have? Is it their ability to pay for a seat? Is it power, or control? I think maybe it’s just an excuse to gatekeep knowledge and feel superior in rooms that were never built for everyone to feel welcome in the first place.

    I don’t like authority. Not even a little. Especially not the made up, performed, or weaponized kinds. Authority that doesn’t come from lived experience. Is constructed like a stage prop to look impressive while standing on shaky wood foundations. Authority which claimed to shut others down, not to uplift them. The kind that says “I know more, so I matter more.” That’s not truth. That’s ego dressed in stolen robes.

    Please don’t even get me started on authority over identities. That kind of “expertise” is the most violent of all. Like when people claim to be an authority on what trans people are or are not. That’s not education. That’s erasure disguised as credibility. Trump thinks he’s some authority on existence, thinks he can just declare people don’t exist. As if my soul is some policy he can veto. As if his opinion carries more weight than reality. That’s not authority. That’s hate with a microphone, a micropenis, and misplaced confidence.

    No. I don’t consider myself an authority on anything. I don’t want that word. I don’t like it. Most people I’ve seen claiming “authority” use it to stop conversations, not open them. They use it to protect their own opinions, not to welcome understanding. They create a wall then call it wisdom. Yet, get defensive when someone has the nerve to question the bricks.

    And here’s the truth… anyone can teach something. Anyone can learn. Maturity has nothing to do with how many years you’ve lived, how many books you’ve published, or how many letters are next to your name. Maturity is in how you treat people when you disagree with them. Maturity is how open you stay, even when you think you know all. A title doesn’t make you wise. A podium doesn’t make you right. And being loud doesn’t make you truthful. Money doesn’t make you worth more. Only hearing what degree holding people have to say is a form of white superiority.

    If I am in authority over anything, it’s my own story. My own decisions. My own morals. Still, even then, I’m always learning. I mess up. I evolve. But my values? My dedication to justice? That is unwavering. That is rooted. If I have any claim to expertise, it’s in how I love all people. How I protect them. How I advocate for other minorities with everything I have in me.

    My authority if we’re calling it that. Authority isn’t about superiority. It’s about solidarity. It’s about using what I’ve survived and what I’ve built to help level the damn playing field. It’s about tearing down fake pedestals, not trying to climb up them.

    Authority should never be a crown. It should be a torch, passed around freely, so no one stands in the dark alone. So those who are only there because they can pay may watch their ability to matter catch fire. Because the amount of money one has doesn’t make them any more important or worthy of anything, but distrust.

    Links poem

  • My First Surgery: Top Surgery and My Mother’s Care

    My First Surgery: Top Surgery and My Mother’s Care

    Have you ever had surgery? What for?

    The first surgery I ever had was my double mastectomy aka top surgery, with Dr. Brandon Reynolds in Las Vegas, NV.

    I remember how everything slowed down when I was being pushed into the procedure room. It wasn’t just medical. It wasn’t cosmetic. It was survival. I wasn’t trying to become someone new. I was cutting away what never belonged to begin with. I was unburdening myself of a silence stitched into my chest.

    My mom flew in to take care of me. That part still guts me sometimes. She didn’t hesitate. She came with snacks and soft words, helped me drain tubes, held space when I couldn’t hold anything else. She never made it weird. Never made it feel like I had to explain. She just showed up with love and candy and hugs and steady hands. That kind of care doesn’t leave your bones. I didn’t know it then, but I’d hold that memory close on darker days, especially after losing her.

    That surgery gave me the kind of breath I didn’t know I’d been holding for most of my life. It was the beginning of my real reflection looking back at me. It was painful, messy, healing, and holy. It was mine. The next photos will be me fully healed in 2022 pre- and post-chest tattoo. After that, there will be a 4-day post-op photo. It shows a little swelling, bruising, and bodily fluids. It might not be suitable if you are squeamish.

    Photo collage of post-top surgery transgender man's chest and scars on top below tattoos cover his scars.
    four days post top surgery transgender man. Hematoma present in left of photo (man's right) chest tissue, drain tubes.

    links poem Coffee

  • What Makes a Good Life? – A Daily Prompt by Poeaxtry

    What Makes a Good Life? – A Daily Prompt by Poeaxtry

    What are the most important things needed to live a good life?

    A good life, for me, is simple but, not small.

    I need nature. Dirt on my chucks, wind that speaks louder than people do. I need to know I can disappear into a trail and be found only by the sky.

    I require a dog. Maybe two. Some cats too. Who else will knock my crystals off the altar mid-spell and remind me that magic doesn’t always go as planned?

    I need tea. Not for caffeine, but for ritual. Warm mug. Still hands. A moment to breathe.

    I want witchy wonder. The kind of worldly knowing that lives in herbs, stars, bone memory. I want to keep learning the language of intuition and fire and the spaces between.

    And, unfortunately, I must have money. Because capitalism doesn’t care if your soul is full—just if your rent is paid. A good life shouldn’t have to be expensive, but here we are.

    I pine for peace. Not just the absence of noise, but the presence of calm. People who let me be fully me. A home that doesn’t ask me to dim anything.

    I fight for equal rights. Not just for me, a trans man making his way in central Ohio, but for all of us. I fight for my lover and for my friends. Strangers I may never meet but still care about.
    We share this wild human experience.

    So what do I need?

    Dirt. Animals. Tea. Magic. Stillness. Justice.

    And just enough money to protect it all.

    links poem journal