Its The Easiest Way Of Writingtheres A Rhythm, Theres A Beat. Poetry Is Like Dancing; You Just Follow

It’s the easiest way of writing there’s a rhythm, there’s a beat. Poetry is like dancing; you just follow your feet.

cityskylinesofimaginaryplaces, excerpt from ‘follow my feet (and they will guide you home)’ (via wnq-writers)

For John, all of the people I love and to celebrate a day with no hatred. Gender is what’s between your ears, not what’s between your legs, and love is love no matter what.

to those who are held back by an ill-fitting skin

my friend, he cried in my arms I held him close and let him weep until he could let it go and talk without fear of trembling.

He told me they had done nothing it was just words that had hurt him so left bruises and cuts and scars all over. They said that there are only girls-who-are-girls and boys-who-are-boys and there was no in between no either/or no and.

He cried for the wrongness of it, the idea that he was not supposed to be who he thought he was. The other day, he said, someone asked me what I was. I didn’t know what they meant I didn’t know I didn’t know

The question was not what are you but who are you and no one seemed to ask.

I told him they were right and he screamed, beating at my chest and crying I was just like them. I held him tight within the cage of my arms and did not let go, waited until he had worn himself out with the agony of perceived betrayal. Then I whispered softly that I had a secret.

I told him that they were right there are no boy-who-are-girls and girls-who-are-boys there are girls, and boys, and either/or and and you are what you choose to be and who you think you are is what you am

You are not a girl-who-is-a-boy and I am not a boy-who-is-a-girl you are a boy and I am a girl Let’s hold hands instead of the broken halves of our hearts.

I don’t mean to demean the struggle you have endured, the part of your being that comes from living for years in an ill fitting skin. That has and always will be you, it has made you and shaped you to be who you are.

But until we realise that people are people and you cannot change that no matter the gender or non gender you are a boy and I am a girl. When we can be recognised as boys and girls

then, maybe, if you want you can be a boy-who-used-to-be-a-girl and I will still call you John.

Through my words he stopped crying and beating against my chest, rested his head on my shoulder and held on for dear life. His skin felt a little less constricting a little less ill-fitting, broken and burnt. With that I said my secret- the one that kept me here.

you are what you think you are and that, my dear, is beautiful.

self-portrait (or, an autobiography in as many words as it takes to give the wrong impression)

for you to read this: there had to have been someone to write it. someone with their eyes closed, head back, waiting for the words to come. those words aren't for free. the cost is their sanity, their livelihood, their mind, their soul- whatever broken beaten down part of them is left. head down, wake up with eyes heavy and lungs drowning in words. these words that get caught inside their chest, worming their way between their bones and into every crack. it's a damn sight to clean up. broken bottles on the floor, painted pages and dreams out the windows with a list of "what did you take this time" that made you think you could fly? there's always someone waiting, someone behind the words, desperate, waiting, watching to see what piece of their soul gets taken next. there is only so much to give.

extract longing; hold it. disclosure, full between your palms.

thought.

is abstract.

chase it.

the way you write.

poetry.

lines.

dividing line.

in two.

cross lines.

fold through.

like paper origami.

cut and hold.

a snowflake.

a real snowflake.

quick.

before it melts.

a passing glance.

hold it.

wait.

for the train.

abstract extract.

thought.

synonyms for destruction:

girl pretty face but sad eyes and you know she’s going to ruin you gently, but it hurts the way she tears you apart and picks out every thread as careful as when she sews you back together smile lopsided and wrong down to your bones. destruction does not come fast, is not easy. is quiet and gentle, pulling you apart the way the world ends- a collapse inward, broken doll on joints that could not stand folding, paper with edges creased and a note that says i love you as she makes and remakes you in the shape of her own destruction. just as she is yours. what beautiful creatures we must be, harbingers of ruination and makers of our own destruction.