Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: trans writer

  • Poeaxtry_ is Where the People Are; Who Thrives and Why? A Deep Dive!

    Poeaxtry_ is Where the People Are; Who Thrives and Why? A Deep Dive!

    Hello Familiar Friends and New Names.

    And welcome where we are all people, first!

    Welcome to a space where we are all people first!

    At Poeaxtry_, I like to say that one of our mottos is “Poeaxtry_, where the people are.” But did I ever explain what that actually boils down to?

    Simply put: I don’t want to force anyone to find me. I want people who might be interested in reading, submitting, creating, or even just engaging with the emotional, hiking, or other free content I share, to discover me naturally and connect in their own way.

    That’s why I post the digital creations, and photos or videos I capture with my phone across social platforms. These posts share the highlights in text on the visual media, summaries in the captions, and links to read more if interested on my website. This site holds the “meat and potatoes,” also known as the full content. This leaves my work accessible to all fully in one place that doesn’t anyone to create an account to view. However subscribers to the website do receive a reward, but I’m probably getting ahead of myself. We’ll get all of that and more soon!

    Quality is Key

    There’s a difference between followers and believers, between noise and signal, between people who swipe and people who stay. Subscribers mean nothing when the numbers aren’t noticing or notifying. Numbers are nothing if they aren’t the people you resonate with.

    This post is a deep dive into the kinds of creators, readers, contributors, critics and community members who thrive at Poeaxtry_ and The Poetry Prism. I’m including a small reminder of our ethos that holds it all together.

    This isn’t about chasing numbers or chasing dopamine. It’s about quality, intention, and connection.

    Who Thrives Here?

    Readers Who Connect.

    People who may read something more than once to see what else is hiding.

    They look for depth over new discovery, connection over content trends.

    They pause, reflect, and engage with work that might challenge societies views or refuse pretend peacefulness.

    Creators Who Make With Purpose

    Not hobbyists. Not algorithm chasers.

    They craft poems like prayers, build zines like love letters, or publish work that has purpose.

    These creators make not for only applause, but because their work demands to hold space.

    Marginalized Voices & Intersectional Art

    We built this space because such spaces were scarce:

    LGBTQ+ voices, Disabled creatives, Neurodivergent makers, people in recovery, creators of color, and other communities America keeps attacking.

    This is visibility with intention, support with structure, and room without hierarchy.

    Contributors & Collaborators Who Grow Together

    This is a working ecosystem, not a pond of competitors.

    Here, people:

    Give and receive constructive feedback, look at success as mutual elevation, respect identities, collaborate while creating creative comrades, compete in creative showdowns, and much more.

    Discord Twitch

    Who This Isn’t For

    Algorithm chasing creators who aren’t the same as creative people they are much different.

    If your goal is to rage bait or chase clicks, this space isn’t for you.

    We value substance over fake.

    The “I’m above you” energy? Not going to fly here.

    Harm, Discrimination, Prejudice

    We do not tolerate dehumanizing behavior.

    Bigotry or discrimination that is based on race, gender, sexuality, disability, mental health, or any other immutable identity ends your collaboration here immediately.

    This is a safe creative community no slut shaming, body shaming, or politics. Transgender identity isn’t politics if you think so I don’t think you need me to tell me shit,

    poeaxtry’s website (updated first) Shared to mainstream & emerging social platforms Direct community spaces Publishing & sales: Amazon/Kindle, Google Play Books, Etsy, Gumroad, Payhip

    At Poeaxtry_ we are not tied to a single platform, always expanding.

    Community Spaces & Engagement

    I’m building safe, collaborative spaces for writers, artists, and makers:

    Discord with Collaborative threads, competitions, open mic nights, custom roles for interactions, and more. Feedback invited, not forced; silence allowed. Rest & presence valued over performance always.

    Publishing & Opportunities

    Poeaxtry’s Poetry Prism offers:

    Free publishing for minority indie creators: poetry, prose, visual art, mixed media, experimental work and Indie spotlights for indie creatives and small businesses Collaborative projects, resource sharing, critique circles

    2026 Initiatives

    Our new Quarterly digital magazine with open submissions, my own features, resource guides, advice sections addressing current issues, and open budget friendly calls for submissions.

    Also be looking for virtual and local open mic nights

    This is the ecosystem for those who thrive here creating, collaborating, connecting, and building together.

    Values Hold Poeaxtry_ Together

    Integrity, respect, care.

    Bigotry, discrimination, or harm ends collaboration immediately.

    We realistically can’t do full vetting or background checks but we know the truth surfaces naturally. Then we will act accordingly.

    This isn’t a growth strategy.

    This is a creative home for people who:

    Read meaningfully, create with care, connect generously, and Build community over content creating trend climbing.

    Your voice matters here. So if it’s genuine, grounded, and human come connect !

    Welcome to Poeaxtry_ and The Poetry Prism.

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  • Top Surgery. Featured in Forever With Pride E-Magazine

    Top Surgery. Featured in Forever With Pride E-Magazine

    I know you’ve been patiently waiting to see what I submitted for my second-month feature in

    Forever With Pride E-Magazine 🌈

    And let’s be honest here

    me posting things on time? Rare. Mythical, even. Unless I pre-schedule (which happens once every solar eclipse or blue moon), expect delays. But the good stuff? Worth the wait. Or so they say.

    This month marks my second feature in what will be a year-long creative partnership with Forever With Pride, an incredible UK-based e-magazine that uplifts LGBTQ+ voices from around the world. The magazine is packed with queer art, poetry, interviews, affirmations, and stories that remind us we’re not alone—ever.

    🖤 You can read the full July issue here:

    Forever with Pride E-Magazine

    💌 While you’re there, add your email to the mailing list and get the next issue dropped right in your inbox every month.

    As for this month’s contribution…

    Make sure to flip to page 9 to find my new poem:

    “Top Surgery” – written in June 2025.

    This one’s intimate. Honest. Carved from real memory and reclaimed power.

    It’s about transition, relief, and remembering.

    These kinds of features mean the world to me but, not just because I get to share my words,

    but because trans stories belong in print.

    Trans stories deserve celebration, not just survival.

    And I’m honored to be one voice among many in a publication doing just that.

    Aside from that my core values always go back to simply sharing the voices of minority communities and giving everyone room to be their own voice.

    Let me know what you think, and maybe share it with someone who needs to read it or who would enjoy a queer focused e magazine

    – Axton // @poeaxtry_

    Links

    Poem

    Prompt

  • Free Printable Spell Template – Black & Gold Page for Beginner Witches

    Free Printable Spell Template – Black & Gold Page for Beginner Witches

    🖤✨ Downloadable or Printable: Blank Spell Template


    I made a clean, black-and-gold spell page for anyone who wants to write their own magick.

    You get the space. you bring the power.

    Use this in your grimoire, BOS, altar journal, or spell book.

    Free for all who need it.

    Posted at 3:33, for the curious and the creative.

    Axton N. O. Mitchell
    @poeaxtry_

    Black & gold accent Spell Template to use in digital or physical book of spells
    Free use spell template

    Check out my Etsy for specialty poetry and witchcraft needs.

    PayHip Free Download/Print GumRode Free Download/Print

    Be seen, celebrated, and connected! All Free! Submit to Poeaxtry Spotlights today. By form or email Poeaxtry@gmail.com

    Links Contact, Questions? Concerns? Google Review?

  • A Gamer’s Escape from a Loud Reality

    A Gamer’s Escape from a Loud Reality

    Where Do You Go When the World Is Too Loud?

    When the world gets too loud, like, shouting-through-a-megaphone-while-juggling-taxes-and-identity-crises loud, I log off. Literally.

    I go to video game land.

    Fortnite

    It’s not real, and that’s exactly the point. It’s where Fortnite lives. Zero Build, thank you very much, because I’m not here to be Bob the Builder under gunfire. I’m here to run, hide in bushes, throw things, and occasionally third-party with wild success. Nobody questions it. Nobody wants anything from me but vibes.

    Nostalgic

    When I’m not dodging snipers and emoting after a win, I’m deep in the nostalgia zone. Crash Bandicoot spins like my anxiety but with better music. Spyro the Dragon? Pure escapism. He flies. He breathes fire. He doesn’t get bills in the mail.

    Then there’s Streets of Rage, where I get to beat people up and no one calls HR. Sonic shows up too, sprinting through levels and collecting rings like my ADHD on a mission. Even South Park somehow makes the cut, crude, loud, messy, and strangely cathartic. Like therapy, if therapy was animated and extremely inappropriate.

    Escapism? Disassociation?

    In these places, the rules make sense: survive, level up, don’t get hit. Nobody’s trying to small talk you into a breakdown. Nobody misgenders you. And definitely nobody is asking for your five-year plan.

    I leave my name at the login screen and go by something slightly ridiculous and highly specific. I’m not escaping. I’m just buffering. Rebooting the system.

    And when I come back? I’m still me, just a little less crispy. A little more ready to face whatever fresh nonsense the world has in store.

    So yeah. That’s where I go when the world is too loud.

    Where do you go?

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  • The Small Joy of Cannabis: A Daily Prompt on Healing, Ritual, and Ease

    The Small Joy of Cannabis: A Daily Prompt on Healing, Ritual, and Ease

    Describe one simple thing you do that brings joy to your life.

    For me, it’s cannabis.

    This is not done in some over-hyped influencer way. It’s not to escape or erase the hard parts. Instead, it is an intentional, grounding practice. A small ritual that helps me settle into my body when the day’s left me scattered and tight. I live in a legal state, and that alone feels like a gift. It means I can let go of the shame that used to linger around this choice. I can choose this softness on purpose. And I do.

    Some days it’s a joint rolled with care, stepped outside just as the sky turns bruised and quiet. Other days it’s a single gummy that says, hey, you made it, you can exhale now. Sometimes, it’s the slow breath that comes after the first hit. My chest finally stops holding on so tight, and I remember what it feels like to just be.

    Marijuana

    Cannabis doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t erase my struggles. But it softens them. It gives me a little more space between my thoughts. It lets joy creep in through the cracks. I experience unexpected laughter. I find deeper sleep. Music suddenly feels like it’s playing for me. I’m more myself, not less. Just a version with more room to feel without being overwhelmed.

    We are all Valid

    I know not everyone connects with this plant the way I do, and that’s okay. But I think we all have something like this. Something small, sacred, maybe a little misunderstood by others. Something that reminds us we’re allowed to feel good. We’re allowed to feel pleasure, calm, silliness, stillness. We’re allowed to tend to ourselves, even in tiny ways.

    So that’s mine. That’s the thing that brings me a quiet kind of joy.

    What’s yours? What small thing do you do, not because it solves everything, but because it brings you back to yourself?

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  • When the News Is Too Loud to Bear But I Still Don’t Unplug

    When the News Is Too Loud to Bear But I Still Don’t Unplug

    How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?

    I know it’s time to unplug when my thoughts stop echoing in my own voice. When the rhythm of my mind gets replaced by headlines, hashtags, outrage, and urgency. When I read one more story about someone like me, someone trans, or someone of a different race. It could be someone disabled or simply living, being silenced, erased, or attacked. Then I can’t even feel the full grief of it because the next notification is already coming in.

    The build-up

    It builds up, quietly and violently. The scrolling doesn’t feel like a choice anymore. It’s like I’m monitoring a storm I never signed up for, making sure no one I love gets struck. I absorb it all: the policies, the slurs, the opinions that mistake my existence for debate. And still, I don’t unplug. Not because I don’t want to, but because part of me feels like I can’t.

    The Need to Unplug

    If I unplug, who holds the line? Who keeps watch? Who amplifies the ones being shouted over, or reminds the world we’re still here? Staying connected feels like an act of resistance, even as it drains me. It feels like a duty, even as it blurs my sense of self. I don’t know how to look away, not when looking feels like a kind of protection, a kind of presence.

    The signs are all there, though. I stop creating. I get snappish. I wake up already tired. I consume more than I respond to. My body tenses, my chest hurts, my hands hover over screens instead of reaching toward anything real. Still, I refresh the feed. I think if I just know more, I’ll be ready. I’ll be safe. But there’s no endpoint to awareness. There’s only exhaustion.

    So when I do try to unplug, it’s rarely graceful. I have to force it: turn off the phone, leave the house, touch something not made of pixels or panic. Write a poem with no goal. Light a match and breathe. Let silence ring louder than the news for once. Let my thoughts come back in my own voice.

    The Hard Part

    That’s the hardest part, reminding myself that being informed and being overwhelmed are not the same thing. That I can care deeply without letting it hollow me out. That unplugging isn’t abandoning the fight. Sometimes, it’s how I return to it stronger.

    Watching out for ALL Minorities

    And it’s not just people like me I’m watching out for. My feed is full of grief and fury for so many others. Black communities are still brutalized and blamed. Indigenous voices remain silenced. Disabled people are pushed to the margins of every movement. Immigrants are treated like threats. Women and femmes are denied autonomy. Jewish and Muslim communities are caught in cycles of violence and erasure. The list doesn’t end, and neither does the ache of seeing it all unfold in real time.

    Even when the news isn’t about me, it’s about us. All of us who live at intersections deemed inconvenient by the powerful. All of us who get flattened into statistics, headlines, or hashtags. I carry that with me. I don’t just stay online to protect my people. I stay to bear witness, to amplify, to hold space for others who are just as tired, just as sacred.

    Respect

    So when I say unplugging feels like absence, it’s not only personal. It’s collective. It feels like turning away from people I care about, even if we’ve never met. But I’m learning that I can’t hold all of it all the time. I can step back without stepping away. I can rest without forgetting. We all deserve that kind of permission, to pause, to breathe, and to come back when we’re ready.

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  • Exploring Indian Mound Reserve in Cedarville, Ohio – A Hiking Reflection

    Exploring Indian Mound Reserve in Cedarville, Ohio – A Hiking Reflection

    Visited 5/22/25 entry written 5/23/25

    Indian Mound Waterfall in Ohio

    Cedarville, Ohio Indian Mound Waterfall

    Yesterday, I took a trip to Cedarville, Ohio. My companions were two close friends, Luna, and one of my friend’s toddlers. It was my first time exploring Indian Mound Reserve. We took about two hours with stops. The drive itself was peaceful. We had the kind of conversations that set the mood for a day of adventures and recharge. The weather hovered around the mid-50s with an on and off drizzle. It was not enough to drench us. However, it was just enough to make everything smell like clean earth and wet bark. The kind of rain that makes the greens greener and turns even ordinary trails into something soft and cinematic.

    I shouldn’t plan or control the map.

    Indian Mound Preserve Map

    We planned to do the 2.5-mile Rim Trail, but thanks to some confusion on AllTrails, and my attention span didn’t help matters. So, we ended up doubling back and weaving in circles until we’d clocked over 4 miles. Despite the detour, it didn’t feel like a mistake, just part of the adventure. The trail wound us through a vibrant forest. Red and purple flowers began to bloom. These were early declarations of late spring. Waterfall views made the mud and missteps worth it. The whole area hummed with the sound of running water, and it followed us nearly the entire hike. There’s something about that like being gently reminded to keep flowing forward, no matter how tangled the path becomes.

    THe flowers on the trails around Indian Mound Waterfall

    The trail itself was a bit rugged in parts, especially after the rain. Tree roots snaked across much of the path. The muddiness made for a comical dance. This was especially true since I had worn my etnies. I rarely wear hiking boots. I slipped or slid numerous times. Each slip reminded me that I probably need to actually wear my boots. Still, I wouldn’t change it. There’s something about feeling the ground fight back a little that makes me feel more alive.

    We crossed numerous wooden bridges and steps, weaving over and across the large creek that cuts through the park. Some of the trails we passed weren’t even marked in AllTrails yet. This tends to happen in less populus areas. My little unofficial footpaths and secret side trails waiting to be explored another day. The water access points were everywhere. With so few people on the trail, it felt like we had the whole preserve to ourselves. That kind of quiet is rare. It is broken only by the babble of water and the chatter of a toddler discovering nature. This is especially true even in Ohio’s backwoods.

    One of the water Access points at Indian Mound

    Even though I wasn’t alone, the experience was still refreshingly personal. There’s a rhythm I fall into on hikes like this, a balance between noticing everything and thinking about nothing. It’s where I process things I don’t have words for. I watch Luna splash, sniff, and smile. Then, I remember why I do this. The road and the forest matter to me in ways that a house or a routine never could.

    I’ll eventually return to Cedarville to explore the other trails and waterfalls. This first visit was only the rim of what’s possible there. I want to hike them all, but honestly that’s nothing new. There’s something sacred in learning a place like that. One muddy mile at a time.

    A group of shroomies growing together in Indian Mound Preserve
  • Daily Prompt 18 – Do You Have a Collection? My Rockhounding Journey

    Daily Prompt 18 – Do You Have a Collection? My Rockhounding Journey

    Do you have any collections?

    Do I collect anything? Oh, just a few things…

    I collect the Earth, stone by stone, crystal by crystal. Not usually ones bought in bins, but treasures I hound myself. I trade with other rockhounds too, offering my finds for theirs like stories passed between old souls. Some I tumble. Some I slice. Some I slice and tumble or polish. Some I polish by hand until their true colors and patterns shine through like secrets whispered by time.

    You’ll find them transformed into necklaces, keychains, and little “Stoney Homies.” Some are left whole, smoothed and gleaming. They rest on altars, shelves, or windowsills. I carry slag glass with me that glows beneath UV light, found in the sands of Lake Superior. Not all glow from here either. I also have its bluer, non-reactive cousin from Lake Erie. Leland Blue, yopperlites, pudding stones, labradorite, Petoskey and unakite. Jaspers, agates, quartz, flint from Nethers Farm on Flint Ridge (some sparkling with quartz inclusions).

    Hiking = Hounding

    Every hike becomes a hunt for treasure. Every shoreline offers gifts. I have a special UV map for the Great Lakes region. I use a 365nm light to spot the glow in the dark. Chisels, buckets, hammers, even an old 1970s Sears tumbler join me in this ritual. I can tumble up to 14 lbs at once, and still find joy in spending hours hand-polishing just one stone.

    Alongside the rocks come ancient echoes. These include crinoid fossils, coral fossils, and brachiopods. Some are cleaned and gently polished, while others are left mostly raw. Nature’s memory is preserved in stone.

    So yes, I collect.

    But not just rocks

    I collect moments, beauty, and the deep magic of the Earth itself.

    If you want to explore the physical and digital side of Poeaxtry, the stores are always open. Physical items like handmade pieces, ritual tools, and select creations live only on Etsy. Digital books, zines, and downloads are available through Gumroad, Etsy, & Payhip. As well as some being available on Kindle & Amazon. Same hands clicking keys across all, just different formats for different hands, needs, and screens.

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  • Unseen. Growing Up Invisible and Not Being Heard.

    Unseen. Growing Up Invisible and Not Being Heard.

    The prompt I saw on threads was to write about the first time you felt completely unseen:

    Life as a kid

    As a child, I used to insist I was a boy. I did not insist in a loud, rebellious way. I did so in that quiet, matter-of-fact voice kids use when they are just telling the truth. I felt like I was the only boy in a lineup of girls. At least, that’s how it felt whenever someone corrected me. They laughed and said, “You’ll grow out of it.” But I never did. I only grew into it… into me.

    I ran with the boys, scraped my knees with them, played rough and loud and honest. We climbed trees like they held all the answers and built forts with sticks and secrets. Those early years were golden, before the world came in with its rules about what belonged to whom. I didn’t notice at first. Not until the divide came. The boys started pulling away. Birthday parties became gendered. Sleepovers stopped. Sports teams split. The invitations disappeared one by one like leaves falling off a tree I thought was evergreen.

    The Change

    That was the first time I felt completely unseen. Not because no one was looking at me, but because no one was seeing me. They were seeing who they decided I was.

    I didn’t have the words for what I was yet. I just had the ache. I remember looking in the mirror. I tried to figure out where the boy had gone. I wondered if he’d ever been there at all. Society had given me a body and a name, and neither fit right. I had to carry both like a costume I couldn’t take off.

    Losing those friendships was like being exiled from a country I thought was mine. And what’s worse, it was a silent exile. No goodbyes. Just distance. Just a shift. Just the sense that I had broken some unspoken rule.

    Fast-Fwd to Now

    Now, years later, I know better. I know who I am. But that was the beginning. That moment was the first real grief. The first rupture. The first time I felt the sharp sting of being unseen because I was trying to be seen for real.

    Axton Mitchell age 5 preschool photos 1996
    Axton Mitchell age 5 pre school
    Axton shirtless in the pool holding a yellow vape. With his sister in the background, caught in a moment that makes it look like she can't swim
    Axton Mitchell Age 33

    No fees, no hoops, just guidance! Get your solo manuscript ready, polished, and published with Poeaxtry. Email Poeaxtryspoetryprism@gmail.com or submit a form.

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  • The Ugliest Truth I Grew From A Reflection on Betrayal, Trust, and Healing

    The Ugliest Truth I Grew From A Reflection on Betrayal, Trust, and Healing

    Truth

    Some truths do not come wrapped in lessons or soft landings. The ugliest truth I have had to grow from is not about heart break. It is at least not how you would expect it to be. It was not a breakup or a solo betrayal. I learned repeatedly that the people you let closest can hurt you the most. Oftentimes, the knives hide behind hugs.

    Relationships


    I was with this one woman for ten years, a lot of high school and young adulthood. We took a break for a few weeks, and she was married to my “best friend.” Neither of them said a word till’ it was done. Not a warning, or a check-in. Just a wedding announcement with my past all dressed up and pretty in my best man’s arm. Like we hadn’t meant a thing, like I had not trusted her with the worst parts of the last decade… and she the same with me.

    Maybe that’s what made it worse at the time. It wasn’t just about the girl that hurt me. I mean the man was my best friend. The two I thought were going to be my family forever. Turns out they both can forget I even exist in less than two months.

    Then comes in the parade of women who loved the idea of me but never the weight of me. They wanted poetry not presence. They saw me as a soft place to land not a person with his own storms. I would show up, pour in, give them real and all I got in return were lame excuses. Vibes without effort. Promises with no follow through.

    At one point (well actually many points) I made myself believe I was too much. I now know was asking for bare minimum. Match my energy. Mean what you say. Show up like I do.

    What Breaks me

    What breaks me the most isn’t even them. It is the repeated chances I have given most people before and after them. The ugliest truth is that I used to trust too quickly. Believed too deeply. Gave way too much, much too soon. I just did not want to live like the world was full of liars. But the fact simply is some people are. Some people see your heart as something to step around. Some will touch your wounds with dirty fingers. Some will allow you to carry them until you fold under the weight of them.

    And when I finally broke, I rebuilt smaller, and tighter. With iron clad boundaries I hold like barb wire. That’s what growth looked like: not forgiveness and not grace. Just knowing better and loving harder from further away.

    Growth

    I grew from this experience. Not everyone who reaches for you deserves a seat at your table. And trust should never be given before it is actually earned.

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