Tag: political poetry

  • 100 Poems in 100 Days: Days 13-19 themes: Grief, Home, Justice, and Reflection

    100 Poems in 100 Days: Days 13-19 themes: Grief, Home, Justice, and Reflection


    One of the most sound pieces of advice I’ve seen in recent graffiti. Two other examples of good advice in graffiti in the post below. I found all three here today in Wheeling, West Virginia at the Overlook Castle.

    This collection captures Days 13 through 19 of the 100 poems in 100 days creative challenge I am participating in. These entries were written daily. They were just shared as a batch in one post. The first 12 were shared daily as solo posts. These poems reflect a week of observation, reflection, and response. Each poem is a moment in time. You’ll find poetry that is personal, political, and more. I am documenting memory, grief, injustice, and the search for clarity and home.

    While these seven poems are shared together, the writing continued daily,as it will continue until day 100. Future entries (Days 20–100) will be posted either individually or in small batches, like the first 19. This will keep readers present and on their toes as to when new daily poems are coming. The ongoing rhythm mirrors life itself: unpredictable, urgent, and evolving.

    Each poem is paired with a Poet’s Note to deepen the context. It reflects on its inspiration. It draws connections between the personal and societal, and the intimate and the global.


    Day 13 – 1/2/2026

    “Rhyme”

    Ukraine

    Palestine

    Venezuela

    There is no point in trying to

    Rhyme

    Nigeria

    Iran

    Sudan

    Their lives the cost at the end of the billionaires

    Riches

    Oil, minerals

    Human greed

    The West strikes again to save the Middle East

    American propaganda machine


    Poet’s Note

    In the shadow of global conflict and the Christmas night bombing in Nigeria. This poem names the human cost behind headlines. Revealing the repeated cycles of violence. Then highlighting the ways ordinary people bear the burden of power, greed, and war. This is poetry that challenges the systems that profit from oppression. Naming places directly like Venezuela, Iran, and Sudan. I want to mention this poem is about all the places affected by these systems, and the people impacted. It is a call to witness what is often ignored.


    top level of mount wood overlook and part of the rolling hills view
    The Top level View and the Rolling hills in the distance at Mount Wood Overlook in Wheeling, WV.

    Day 14 – 1/3/2026


    “Warm Places, Cold World”

    I am blessed to have

    many warm places in a world so cold.

    My home

    My car

    The woods

    places I feel safe

    Yet when the lonely days are too rough

    My partner’s arms

    My mother-in-law’s couch

    Or friends with shared spaces

    Are places I am blessed to know

    On this winding road, finding pieces of home

    West Virginia roads once led me there

    now the memories of

    the place are

    scattered

    everywhere

    Curating a place for me

    after searching eternally


    Poet’s Note

    Written 1/3/2026, this poem reflects on the fragments of home we find throughout life. Safety, warmth, and belonging can appear in unexpected places, from people to landscapes to fleeting moments. Home is not just geography; it is collected through memory, connection, and care.


    The view from the top of the stairs to the lower level of the castle Overlook Wheelinh, Wv
    View from the top landing of the spiral steps at Mount Wood Castle.

    Day 15 – 1/4/2026

    “The Same”

    Swipe.

    F

    l

    i

    c

    k. M o .

    v e

    The days on the calendar
    float on by,

    though they
    always stay
    the same.

    R l
    o l.

    T
    u
    r
    n.
    Change….

    The numbers on the clock,
    never showing
    a repeating
    moment….

    Though, they always
    stay
    the
    same.

    Fast-forward
    or reverse,
    wherever
    you
    choose
    to
    press
    play.

    World history
    or
    familial ties
    through bloodlines,
    cursed or blessed,
    they never look
    the same.

    Though,
    they always stay
    the
    same.

    Who is to blame for never making the change?

    Those in history?
    Or
    Those of us living through its
    repeats?

    Poets note

    This poem traces the rhythm of repetition, the illusion of movement in days, clocks, and history. Swipe, flick, turn… As we do on our phones. Then we press play, like a movie, thinking we are deciding, thinking we are moving. Yet so much is actually left unchanged. The poem artistically depicts the movements we make on our phones. As well as showing how we rewound, fast forwarded, and pressed play on VHS tapes, DVDs, and more. Using both depictions to show time and how things change yet stay the same.

    The lines stretch, scatter, and move on the page like our attempts to grasp time and meaning. Showing how moments pass, events unfold, generations bear patterns… Yet in their echo, the sameness persists. Asking quietly and plainly: when cycles repeat, who holds the responsibility? Those who lived before? Or those of us who carry the weight now?

    This piece is both a mirror and a map. Acting as a reflection on history’s repetitions and the intimate, daily rhythms we navigate. It acknowledges the frustration of watching patterns endure while searching for change. Poetically playing on tension between inevitability and agency.

    Axton wearing a backwards hat, black hoodie with a skull, gray joggers, and green crocs junipers, leans against a wall At Mount Wood Overlook where grafitti says Love not Hate in green bubble letters .
    Axton a Transgender man posing next to graffiti reminding people to chose love over hate.

    Pause here with me for a moment.

    Did any line, feeling, or piece here stick out or to you more?
    I’d love to hear the details regarding which and the ways it resonated.
    Think about it and tell me in the comments?

    or

    At the end of this post you could comment a line, quote, or your full poem. Poems from the past, that align with these daily themes are welcome, as well as those written this week.

    Any and all interactions or additional conversation pieces and starters highly appreciated. We enjoy reading your creative pieces, input, takes, reviews,reflections, and all the interactions in between.


    Day 16 – 1/5/2026

    A micro-poem on Grief

    “Goodbye, Breathe”

    I wish you had

    thought to

    breathe your quiet

    warmth inside of me

    one last time

    before you said

    goodbye

    Poet’s Note

    Today’s micro-poem captures grief and the longing for a final shared moment. Its brevity emphasizes the weight of absence, memory, and the lingering warmth of those we lose. Even in few lines, poetry can cradle the unspeakable and hold the echo of those gone. This was written in the shadow of grief after the loss of my mother. “Goodbye, Breathe” works at showing how some poetry is adaptable to any type of loss. Here I leave the meaning up to interpretation by the reader yet fully convey my feelings.


    Cat graffiti in wheeling, WV at mount wood overlook
    A Cute Graffiti Art Cat to Brighten the Post.

    Day 17 – 1/6/2026

    “Circus and Cake”

    Downplayed self‑care in society

    Overworked, under‑lived lives….

    Romanticized

    You work a hundred hours a week…

    Just to spend all your time off
    feeling
    weak.

    You barely scrape by.

    Yet you have the mind to brag

    and boast.

    Making the hours you waste
    working

    a competition to make yourself feel
    better…

    No matter how much you try to…
    disguise it

    it’s true

    They made the working-class
    slaves

    Then we thanked them for it.

    They took away the circus and
    the
    cake.
    And
    instead of throwing a fit…

    we blamed each
    other for it


    Poet’s Note

    “Circus and Cake” a poem reflecting on distraction through comfort. Small pleasures and fleeting indulgences that can pacify people while systemic exploitation continues. The stolen “circus” and “cake” are symbols of joy and entertainment. Throughout history, government agencies have used bread and circuses to distract their citizens. Panem et circuses was the Latin term used to represent this. The poem highlights governmental distractions and questions readers in different ways.

    What has changed in our society?
    We had our stability (bread, cake, food, etc) and
    entertainment (circus, distractions that are fun, etc)
    all but fully removed.
    Yet we remain distracted.
    Why?


    VIew of the Ohio River, Wheeling, and Parts of Belmont county Ohio from The Overlook in Wheeling, WV.
    View of West Virginia, Ohio, and the Ohio River from the Overlook In Wheeling, WV.

    Day 18 – 1/7/2026

    Prelude:
    Axton curated the piece below while sitting at Mount Wood Overlook in Wheeling, West Virginia. Also called the Castle Overlook or just the Overlook. At present time tourists and locals alike use this overlook for an array of things. Most visitors come for sightseeing, unique photography, and outdoor hangouts. Others are drawn to public murals created by the local Wheeling Art Commission. Urban-exploration also tops the list of reasons you’d find an individual visiting the overlook.

    But, for creative and emotionally driven humans, this paces exists to reminisce. Grief, childhood memories, or even a longing for home. Add to that the need to unpack big things in equally big spaces, that call us places like this. Last and maybe most important a giant serving of nostalgia. And now you can truly see why the overlook fits for these needs, as well as some mischievous happenings too.


    “Cremated”

    And
    every time I come home,

    it’s a little

    lonelier

    than the last.

    And
    every time I come home,

    I wonder if

    somehow

    home

    has
    picked up

    and
    left.

    Or did I?

    Was the place I knew
    turned to crumbled remains with you?
    Cremate my home
    right
    along
    with
    you?

    Ashes
    to
    Ashes,

    Dust
    to
    Dust,

    I still

    just

    collect

    the

    pieces

    along the
    way.

    My torture evergreen.


    Poet’s Note

    Written at Mount Wood Overlook in Wheeling, WV. A poem that explores home, memory, and loss. Sharing Feelings of grief and loss I feel when returning to the place I grew up since the death of my mother. The loss of feeling at home since she was cremated, “Cremated” poetically describes the cremation of home. The overlook, was built in the 1920’s. It was originally supposed to house a doctor before life drama got in the way of completing it. The structure now watches over absent families and scattered histories. The overlook castle (as locals call it) also showcases wicked graffiti, which doesn’t stay the same long. Here home is collected in fragments, in memories, and in what remains. For some reason, even when it feels lonelier each time I return.


    Axton leaning on a graffiti covered ledge in a black hoodie with a skull, gray joggers, a backwards hat, and green croc junipers at Mount Wood Overlook in Wheeling, WV

    Day 19 – 1/8/2026

    “Vigilante Justice”

    Let’s start a fire inside the United States,

    figuratively,
    of course.

    We can start by using
    oppression,

    hatred,
    and bigotry

    as gasoline to fuel
    this movement.

    Melting down
    ice
    into
    nonexistence.

    Covering the country’s soil in fluids

    other than

    spilled blood

    from darker
    complexions,

    the first time in a whole fucking year….

    The
    presidency ….

    has three
    entire
    years
    to go,
    still
    ….

    Scariest thing,
    if you ask me,

    the collective inability to remember
    how things were before…

    When they were just a
    minute fraction
    of the pie
    closer to equality

    We do not want…
    Venezuelan oil.

    We do not want to
    overthrow……

    Greenland.

    Mexico.

    Canada.

    We want
    education,
    affordable
    healthcare,
    workers’
    rights,

    equality
    for
    all

    Now

    OR
    vengeance for each
    and every infraction.

    Come tomorrow and on.

    A
    vigilante
    is
    what
    we
    need….

    And a
    vigilante
    I
    may
    soon
    be.


    Poet’s Note

    A piece that uses fire as metaphor, representing accountability and resistance rather than destruction. It critiques complacency, systemic injustice, and the erasure of memory. Then it names the need for moral vigilance and collective action. This is poetry that refuses to stay passive in the face of oppression.

    These seven days trace a path through personal and global reflection, grief, memory, and resistance. They examine cycles of oppression, moments of warmth and home. The tension between complacency and action lives in these poems. From international injustice to intimate loss. Stolen joy and moral awakening find their homes here. Poems as witness, critique, and call-to-action. Each a fragment of a daily personal creative contest. Join me in observing the world and responding with honesty, urgency, and reflection.

    Be Kind with hearts graffiti at mount wood overlook castle wheeling, west virginia
    I feel like everyone in the world could use this advice right now.

    Please feel free to share this post with anyone you think would benefit from reading these poems in any form.
    Have an artistic or poetic friend?
    Share this with them and challenge them to create one poem or piece of art every day for 100 days.


    Before you go, are you interested in supporting the creative dreams and goals of a small-town Ohio poet? Axton N.O. Mitchell the voice behind Poeaxtry is a transgender man with a neurodivergent thought pattern. He has a black belt in being a mental health warrior, he earned through lived experiences. The digital creations Poeaxtry by Axton designs always align with advocacy.
    Axton ensures Poeaxtry and the prism always keep community care centralized.

    Cashapp. Paypal. Ko-fi. Buy me a Coffee.
    Monetary donations, subscriptions, and purchases are all welcomed. Comments, shares, likes, reads, reviews, and trades are greatly appreciated. We value any and all interactions, regardless of money spent.


    Poeaxtry by Axton aims to destroy pay walls.
    Art & Literature have often been hidden behind these.
    By design paywalls keep individuals who need these creations most at arms length in a lot of situations.
    Here we offer many ways to access forever free work.
    While offering paid collections and items by trade for honest reviews or other indie creations.
    As well as advocacy based creations for free by form to those they aim to advocate for.
    Free Collections For Honest Reviews
    Ask about trading collections, physical items, and services.
    Free zine for Mental Health Warriors. Free Zine for Gender nonconformists.
    Don’t like forms? Email me about any of the mentioned forms or any other concerns at Poeaxtry@gmail.com or reach out to me on any of my many social platforms.

    Free Collections & Samples available on
    Wattpad. Quotev. Booksie.


    Poeaxtry Links. Portfolio.
    Random day. A different day.
    This book feels relevant to the last 19 days.
    Thank you for reading Poeaxtry by Axton’s original poetry.


    Green bubble letter Love not Hate graffiti at Mount Wood Overlook Castle in Wheeling, WV 1/7/2026
    More surprisingly sound advice from graffiti in Wheeling, West Virginia.
  • Day 10 of 100 Days of Poetry- “New Year Same Fight”- A Call Out Poem

    Day 10 of 100 Days of Poetry- “New Year Same Fight”- A Call Out Poem

    Day ten lands in that strange quiet between calendars, when people throw confetti over unresolved harm and call it renewal.

    This poem doesn’t toast the turning of the year.

    It questions it.

    Because remember a new date doesn’t undo old violence.

    A holiday doesn’t cancel policy.

    And cheer, when it’s demanded instead of earned, becomes another form of pressure.

    This is for anyone who feels the dread creep in louder than the countdown.


    “New Year, Same Fight”

    As we get closer

    to the end of this year,

    I can’t even pretend

    that the fear of the coming one

    doesn’t outweigh the cheer.

    How do I celebrate

    a future where we can’t

    agree to be different

    and still live in harmony?

    How do I look forward

    to another year

    of hate and policy

    thrown about haphazardly,

    leaving only those like you and me

    standing under the terror rain?

    How do you play along,

    pretend everything’s okay,

    celebrate a holiday

    that only marks the turning of years

    and never the growth of humankind?

    You must be out of your god damn mind.

    Give me something worth celebrating,

    and with you, I will cheer.

    Until then,

    I already have something worth fighting for,

    so I won’t be blinded

    by your unwarranted holiday.

    Comment one thing you’re refusing to celebrate blindly this year, and why. Or Share one value you’re carrying into the new year even when it costs you comfort.

    Up Poet’s Note

    This poem came from watching joy be weaponized.

    From seeing celebration demanded from people who are actively being harmed by the systems others toast.

    Hope isn’t confetti.

    Optimism isn’t obedience.

    Refusing to cheer doesn’t mean refusing to live.

    Sometimes it means choosing clarity over distraction.

    If this poem sounds like someone you know, someone exhausted by forced positivity, someone whose survival keeps getting labeled as “too political”… Share this with them. Or send it to the person who keeps telling you to “just focus on the good” while ignoring the cost.

    Not every new year deserves applause.

    Some deserve resistance, honesty, and memory.


    If you’d like to support work that pushes acceptance, hope, and the refusal to accept inequality when it counts! Consider a donation via CashApp, PayPal, Ko-Fi, or Buy Me a Coffee. This helps to keep our projects and community thriving.


    Poeaxtry Links Day5

  • Poem day 8/100: “Failing, Badly” – America the Blind- visceral poetry

    Poem day 8/100: “Failing, Badly” – America the Blind- visceral poetry


    This is my day 8 poem for the 100 poems in 100 days contest started on threads. Here I am exploring the intersections of political power, personal trauma, and societal complicity. “Failing, Badly” titled after the ending of the merry Christmas post on his social site truth social. This poem confronts the shocking realities of public figures’ actions and the collective silence that allows abuse to continue, using visceral imagery and direct language to provoke reflection and outrage. Content warning mention on CSA and Incest aligned thinking! Do not proceed if you are not comfortable being uncomfortable.


    “Failing,badly”

    I began to wonder

    seeing repeats of Donny’s

    “truth” on December 24.

    Radical leftists scum.

    Would if he’d stop

    riding our asses if we

    pretended not to care

    little girls make him cum.

    Visceral visual

    disgusting

    disturbing

    America the brave

    Where are they?

    Failing badly

    Or

    They transitioned to

    America the

    Blind.

    To trump voters the

    Mother’s and Father’s

    Of girls, who voted him in

    I have a

    Question

    How’d you vote for a man who

    publicly makes taboo statements

    About his own

    Kid?

    “if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.”

    Admitting to reoccurring times of

    Bring up Incest adjacent

    Attraction

    on the tv screen

    Now cheer for your President.


    Did this make you wince, get pissed, or something more? Drop what feelings it stirred in you in the comments or even other things it reminded you about.

    Poet’s Note:

    I wrote this poem in response to the resurfacing of statements made by Americas first king that should disturb any human conscience. It’s intentionally loud, intentionally uncomfortable. The poem uses repetition, short lines, and stark imagery to mimic the emotional jolt of confronting truths that the people who could stop this, or care often ignore. I hope it sparks conversation, reflection, and a refusal to normalize abuse.


    “Failing, Badly” is a call to awareness and accountability. It is not enough to witness wrongdoing and look away. Poetry can amplify discomfort and force reflection. This I feel can be an essential step toward change. America must confront the failures of its leaders and the complicity of its change makers and citizens, before history writes another chapter of moral collapse. Notice each one is worse than the last as history progresses? We have got to do better!

    Share this poem if you please let it travel like wildfire and reach the ones who need to see it, feel it, or wrestle it. Poetry and truth deserve no quiet corners.

    All Poeaxtry Links

    Don’t forget subscribe to my WordPress updates & receive 20% off digital & 10% off physical subscriber only discount codes for use as you please!

  • Day 5 of 100 Poems in 100 Days, “I Hope It Burns”, F*ck the American Melting Pot

    Day 5 of 100 Poems in 100 Days, “I Hope It Burns”, F*ck the American Melting Pot


    Day 5 showed up after a meme. It said simply “immigrants belong in Ohio.” This happens to me when the world won’t shut up long enough for the words in my mind to behave. Memes, commercials, fragments of conversations, and other randomness become lines to poetry.

    This series was never meant to be polite, or evenly spaced, or emotionally neat. One poem a day for one hundred days isn’t about discipline alone, it’s about witnessing. Some days whisper. Some days yell. Some days light a match and wait. This for me is mostly about practice, honing my craft, discipline x2 yes, and seeing what my mind will produce for 100 days straight one poem every day.

    “I Hope It Burns” is a refusal poem.

    Not an argument.

    Not a debate.

    A refusal to keep explaining what has already been taught, erased, rewritten, and weaponized.

    It comes from exhaustion, repetition, and the surreal experience of watching history pretend it doesn’t recognize itself.

    This is day five.


    I Hope It Burns

    What’s going on in society today?

    fuck if I know!

    One thing’s for certain though

    immigrants belong in Ohio

    And Utah, and Maine

    Washington, Texas, California

    New York, West Virginia

    Florida, Nevada

    And the rest of the United fucking States

    This is so redundant for me to

    have to explain

    I feel like I’m going fucking insane

    Did we not learn in second grade, if not earlier,

    what the fucking melting pot is?

    I mean, if the only Americans are Natives,

    our ancestors with palm colored skin

    came here on a fucking boat,

    took lives and land

    How the fuck are you saying no one else can come here?

    The whole damn country is built on it

    Melting pot this, melting pot that,

    American dream washed-up bullshit

    doesn’t mean a thing

    when no one’s allowed in

    Would you like some crushed ice for that burn?

    Poet’s Note

    This poem is written from repetition fatigue.

    The kind that comes from answering the same questions, hearing the same slogans, watching the same cycles spin louder instead of smarter. It is not interested in convincing anyone. It is interested in naming the absurdity of selective memory, of nationalism that forgets its own construction, of classrooms that taught one story and adults who pretend they never heard it.

    The geography matters. The language matters. The anger is intentional, not decorative. This poem is not asking permission to exist, it is documenting what happens when the truth keeps getting told and ignored anyway.


    “I Hope It Burns” doesn’t end with a solution because it isn’t offering one.

    It ends with heat.

    With consequence.

    With the reminder that stories don’t disappear just because they’re inconvenient.

    Day five is a pressure point. It holds tension instead of releasing it. That’s allowed. This series isn’t a ladder toward comfort, it’s a record of days lived honestly in a country that keeps pretending it doesn’t know how it got here.

    Tomorrow’s poem might be quieter. Or maybe it won’t be.

    Either way, the fire doesn’t undo itself.

    Ice kofi

  • The World Burns, and We Scroll: Bearing Witness to Genocide, Greed, and the Price of Empires

    The World Burns, and We Scroll: Bearing Witness to Genocide, Greed, and the Price of Empires

    We live in a world that feels like it’s cracking under the weight of its own reflection.

    As of 2025, humanitarian crises and genocides continue across the globe, largely ignored or exploited by the same systems that profit from their pain. In Gaza, tens of thousands have been killed and displaced as infrastructure collapses and access to aid remains restricted. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, the cobalt and coltan mined by children still power the batteries of our phones, laptops, and electric cars. And in Sudan, an ongoing civil war has displaced millions, yet receives almost no media coverage compared to Western conflicts.

    Meanwhile, Americans scroll and spend, buried under debt, inflation, and propaganda. While, being told that freedom can be found in the checkout aisle or the next algorithmic distraction comes along.

    This poem was written as both confession and confrontation: a moment of truth-telling from within the belly of a capitalist empire that feeds on silence.

    Poem:

    “The World Burns, and We Scroll”

    I wake beneath the hum

    of screens,

    each one a sermon preaching more for sale,

    their glow a ghost of what we lost…

    to comfort,

    convenience,

    and compliance.

    The world burns,

    not metaphor,

    not news,

    she just burns.

    In Congo,

    in Sudan,

    in Palestine,

    children trade their breath for minerals.

    Their parents’ lives

    for borders drawn by hands

    that never had to bleed.

    Their cries travel

    through copper veins

    to light our phones, our news feeds,

    our many, many screens.

    The guilt, we share.

    We spend.

    We pretend.

    America,

    land of the barely living wage,

    where grief is taxed,

    and outrage costs extra.

    We chant freedom in discount aisles

    while bombs hum lullabies abroad,

    and children go to bed with dread

    fed by hunger.

    You’ve got to start to

    wonder.

    We are not free.

    We are stitched into these machines,

    screaming between algorithms.

    We need only to bear witness,

    to cradle a world that keeps unraveling,

    to tell everyone still fighting:

    we see you.

    Even if our country won’t.

    May every dollar dripped in blood

    rot back to dirt.

    May every empire collapse

    under its own reflection of depravity.

    May mercy outlive profit.

    May love…

    unfiltered, defiant, unbranded,

    outlast the hands that sell it.

    And may God hope He isn’t real

    after what He’s let these children

    feel.

    The violence unfolding in Palestine, Congo, and Sudan is not distant. It is wired directly into our daily lives. It is in our consumption, our comfort, our denial. Every tap, every scroll, every “neutral” stance allows empires to continue unchallenged. Bearing witness means refusing silence. It means calling it what it is: systemic greed, colonialism reborn, a global machine powered by both apathy and profit.

    But awareness can still become action. Sharing verified updates, supporting on-the-ground organizations like Doctors Without Borders, UNRWA, Refugees International, and Congo Relief Missions, or simply breaking the silence in our own communities. Each and every act chips away at the narrative that tells us we are helpless.

    Art alone cannot stop war, but it can refuse to let it vanish unseen.

    This poem stands as both lament and rebellion… against complicity, against erasure, and against the idea that humanity can be priced.

    Poet’s Note:

    I wrote this piece as an American who has grown exhausted by the repetition of history. We are watching the same injustices dressed in new slogans. We are taught to chase comfort while others are buried beneath it. This poem is not just grief; it’s a refusal to look away.

    If you read this and feel angry, good. That means you still have something the system hasn’t stolen, your empathy. Hold on to it. Use it. STAY WOKE!

    Because the world is burning, and still, somehow, we have the power to bear witness, to refuse to forget, and to keep telling the truth.

    Links. Portfolio. Poetizer

  • United in Difference. A Poem on Trans Rights, T Shots & American Hypocrisy

    United in Difference. A Poem on Trans Rights, T Shots & American Hypocrisy


    Original poem by Axton N.O. Mitchell

    Is he on that 
    Vitamin T 
    A vial that used to be so 

         V

            I

              T 

                A 

                    L

    To my very existence 
    now I have to pretend like 
    never meant a thing to me. 
    This is bordering obscene.
    Obsessing over what is
    in-between the back 
    and the front of my 

         J

           E

              A

                  N

                      S 

    Yet I’m the one who has perversions. 
    simply for saying
    “Hey this is me.”
    Or 
    “Hey, let queers be.”
    I may forget time
    and time again

    A shot or
    A few  
    From the vial 
    Of vital fluid
    But…
    I’m not sorry
    I finally feel kin 
    To this temporary 

    S

       K

          I

            N

                 That I was forced to make a home in. 
    That does not mean I
    would consent 
    lie down or conform 
    to allow anyone of you 
    to take my T away

      A

      S

            If  

    It is not the one thing to thank
    that 
     I have this life 
    the very 

    R

    E

    A

    S

    O

    N
    I lived it as many 
    times around the sun 
    as I have done. 
    Should you not be glad? 
    Within this very skin prison 
    I have made a better home 
    more fit for me. 
    Do you not 

       S 

       E

    ME?

    Mr. president 
    Mr. chairman 
    Mr. big government USA 
    I should not have to beg
    to have the rights of 
    all citizens of 
    this land!

    Since when did 
    every American 
    voice
    not have a say?

    This isn’t what 
    children 
    are forced to learn 
    Or close to what you 
    want to teach …
    Said Americans were fair. 
    The USA believes in human rights….
    Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all…..
    Does all not mean a 

    D

    A

    M

    N
    thing?

    If you are not exactly the same?
    I guess you all
    think I am to blame…
    This is simply a choice of 
    hiding who you are 
    forever 
    or 

    living happily. 
    Making queer identities 
    criminal 
    changes one thing
    he ability of some to see
    queer identities still exist,
    naturally… 
    We will 

           A

              L

                 W

                    A

                        Y 

                          S
    be. 
    I want a chance to be me. 
    Not a soul would lose a thing
    human rights for 
    every being 
    will 
    see we all have the 
    same 
    start equally. 

     

    Letting us all be, how 
    We wish to be
    Logically,
    will ensure you 
    never hear another 
    minuscule morsel 
    of queer anything 
    If you’d just let us, be 
    queer instead of living in 
    fear. 

    Would be no sense 
    In being so loud in our difference 
    If our ability to coexist 
    wasn’t so close to
    snatched away from us. 

    This you have to trust 
    You will not 
    detransition us. 
    Death before forced 
    erasure 
    of queer identities. 
    Not a cry for help 
    a battle cry instead 
    for my minority 
    communities.

    Let us band together.
    Now or never
    in an unprecedented movement 
    of equal rights 
    for one another! 

    🖤

    Every poem listens back.

    Add your thread to the weave.

    Links poem