Diary

I Sleep

Light peaks through blackout curtains,
impaling the darkness around me.
Dust flies through the luminescence,
Like fairies in a night garden.

I, too, want to bask in the light,
To be as free as the dust that flies.
But I am captive,
bound by an inky blackout.

This bed is my prison cell,
The blankets are my shackles,
The curtains are the warden.

The warden is tough.
No visitors in or out.
Shower time is never,
Damning me to the stench of unclean flesh.

Dishes pile up,
Yet, my stomach cries out.
Gurgle and burble fill this lonely cell.

As I lie down to sleep,
A tiny voice fills my ear.
The dust whispers,
“It’ll be okay, I’m here for you,”

Many more motes,
Fly to my ear.
Whispering encouragements,
Into the darkness of my mind.

Each syllable loosens the warden’s grip.
Soon enough I’ll leave,
But for now, I sleep

— O.G.

Dear English Teachers

. Dear English tEachers,
Does my violation; of grammatic lAw appall you!
Y-O-U always said ”my refusal to follow rules
Made me deserve of me fate“.

Everyone always says rules are for broken,
But: Egnlishs’ grammar is: deemed sacred: ? Why
Since i'ts apparently an art,
why cain’t it be subjective?
Why have to it be violated;
have it’s right to nonconformity be snatched.

Oh right.
It’s b/c you’re two preoccupied /w legality too sea,
That me words still make tsuamis,
They’re meaning still, defies their foes,
Even iF structure isn’t sentences!

Dear English teachers, I hope you understand,
That those years of dismay,
Have not broken me into the wonderous wordsmith you wanted;
Instead, you opened the door unto my socialite rebel.

— O.G.

Not a love song

Admist the whirlwind of
Giddy diddies and hopeful hymns.
I serenade with a solemn song.
Shining light on the acquiescence of truth.

This is not a love song
I won’t accept you for yourself.
White hot ire rises,
as you craft the notion of mutiny.
You think it’s my job to bless you
with faux feelings to gaslight the mind.

In truth,
I cannot give you the love you deserve,
for you won’t accept it. The hubris of your
self-criticism clenches the soul airtight.
No amount of nuclear niceness frees it;
only you have the key.

This is not a love song
Because I refuse to abet your crime of codependency.
I can’t love you for you,
I can only change the reality you perceive.
You need to accept that,
else the sky will fall little chicken.

You’re convinced that if you don’t love every
pertinent piece of your personal property,
you hate it with every fiber of your being.
Forgetting that they are extreme outliers in the IQR of feelings.
Like and Okay are most likely the means and
that's the most likely outcome; statistically speaking.

This is not a love song
I hope you’re starting to understand,
that self-worth is not determined by the
degree in which you delude yourself with
Totalitarian body positivity so toxic
it destroys everything it claims to love; but within
acceptance of mediocrity.

There will be things you
absolutely love about yourself, just like, and want to change.
Whether or not you do
is up to you.
But just know that life is imperfect; change is constant
and wanting it is not a sin.
There will always be yin in yang;
the two coexist in harmony.

— O.G.

Who?

I stand here,
at the intersection of who I was,
who I am,
and who I will be.

The language of discourse,
running continuously through my ears.
The powerful crave power,
so, they Brainwash us to submission,
with feel-good-hetero-media.

These are the same people,
who taught us to hate ourselves.
Not because we deserve it,
but because they saw us as inadequate.

It's truly a shame,
as I look back;
That my ideas of me,
essentially came from my genes,
and not socially from the heart.

So I stand here,
At the intersection of Misogynoir.
Who I am,
And who I will be.

Feminists, Protestors, Theorists, and the like
fight against and point out,
the inequality and unjustness of it all.
Yet our cries fall on self-deafened ears.

Even with our waves,
Riots,
Essays,
and Pleas:
Nothing changes your predetermined mind.

Did it ever occur to you,
that who I am,
how I am,
And who I want to be are different things.

Probably not.
Because for you,
all minorities are worthless,
and stereotypes rule.

When in reality,
A whole is the sum of its parts.
And stereotypes are a magnified fraction
Of the human experience.

I stand here,
on Terra Nullius.
At the intersection of colonialization,
And genderfication.

You know,
I wasn't born as I was.
Society made me,
And I chose to abide.

I mean,
It was easy for me to pretend,
then to be real. Because it was assumed that I was fixed,
unchaining, binary, hetero: "normal" essentially.

I wish someone had asked my language.
Instead of being colorblind.
Pretending we're all the same,
And the past is in the past.

So a stand here,
At the intersection of who I was,
Who I am,
who I will be. . .

And I figure that who I will be is me;
Not man, woman, nothing or everything.
But me, and only me.
I take a right at the intersection,
And leave my pronouns, binary, heteronormativity, power knowledge, and stereotypes
at the street post.

— O.G.

Am I enough?

Other,
it's my technical term;
cast to the margins of Society,
at least, that's how I'm suppost to feel-

Yet, I am the cream of the crop:
white, cis, masc., able-bodies, neurotypical,
and any other "nornmal" there is-
it's just how I love that's different.

Do I give myself enough credit-
for the "experiences" I've had?
Indulging myself in "macro-aggressions,"
in order to feel some resemblance of abnormal?

Yet, ignorance is bliss;
if I ignore the ways in which I fit,
I become apart of the problem
that plagues my siblings.

So I'm constantly caught at a crossroad;
admit my experiences will never compare,
and let my limbs go limp,
while lead legs drag me down in normalcy¿
Or imbrace my perfect imperfections,
as I white wash struggle. (I'm sorry)

— O.G.

Arts & Crafts

Easure poetry
less    more      say.

must
   You ~~need to~~ destroy
   in order to create.

             ----->
It's kinda like life & death
             <----

Life fuels/sleuf htaed ---> each other

— O.G.

Self-Expression

Somedays I feel like I'm
trapped back in the bottle.
No, not drinking:
FEELINGS

It's just,
I can't help feeling
emotionally stunded.

Like, I want to laught, smile,
and cry wholeheartedly;
without second thought or
by proxy guilt.

But something stops me.
It's like the cork screw's tip
is barley inside.

Any attempt at escape,
is only going to hurt.

— O.G.

Fall

I've been told
I shouldn't be afraid of the fall,
it's the landing that matters.
Yet, that's saying,
"be afraid of the centain,"
rather than the uncertain.
A confusing contradiction to be concise.

Because, the impact is certain,
Over the edge, it's bound to happen. . .
the natural consequnces of gravity.

But falling,
that's uncertain.
All it takes is a minute misstep,
a fumbled phalange,
a preoccupied presence.

You never realize you're falling,
until the view halfway down;
once it's started,
it can seldom be stopped.

I'm not afraid of the consequence,
I'm afraid of triggering them,
and this cannon event being fatal.

I'm not afraid of the landing,
I'm terrified of the fall.

— O.G.

Dyad

A little context is required before this poem.
I wrote this in the 10th grade, as part
of an English assignment on Queer Theory.
My goal/thought process was to create a love poem
devoid of pronouns, while still including stereotyped
activies- e.g. sports and men, gardening and women -to
show, in a sense, how heteronormativity is presummed.

As a go back and read it,
I do slightly cringe,
becuase the poem doesn't connect to/represent me anymore.

Still, I wanted to include it,
becuase it is a poem I wrote,
and becuase not doing so feels like a betrayal to my younger self.

So, if this poem feels "awkward" or out
of place, there's a reason.

The other day,
my heart did tell,
that I love another.
One that loves me aswell.

The way a baseball,
is thrown from their hand,
makes me fall,
like that ball to the land.

I hope my love,
like how I plant,
a garden for them,
and I. . .

In this garden,
we shall steal stars.
I shall give them one:
a reminder of my love.

My Dyad

— O.G.

Ode to the Smart Kid

It still hurts sometimes;
embers of the old anger flare up
at things that remind you of it,
of what they took. . .

But can they really take,
what was never guaranteed to be yours?
I know it hurts,
but a part of you knew,
it was inevitable.

Like a bridesmaid, never a bride,
you're the smart kid, not the stand out.
You didn't do anything wrong,
they didn't do anything wrong,
it just wasn't in the cards.

And that's okay,
I promise things get better.
You're much happier now,
it doesn't mean as much anymore.

Maybe it was for the best.
That speech would've been tone deaf;
that title would've made you insufferable.

Or maybe that's what you say-
a mixture of loathing and consolement
-so the memory doesn't cut as deep.

Becuase it stil hurts sometimes,
and nothing will change that,
But with everything you've gained,
is it really half-bad?'

— O.G.

Normal

I am like an Ostrich
in a field of flamingos

The pressure to fit in feels
like a weight crushing my spine

Why did I have to be put here?

why can't I be normal?

— O.G.

Colour by Number

Every choice is predetermined;
free will is but a illusion,

1 is yellow, 2 is read, 3 is black;
the list goes on & on.

Off I go.
First to the yellow bus,
then to the red chair of the class room,
& third, back to the black walls of my room.

I can't shake the feeling,
that I've seen this all before

— O.G.

Blossom

Nothing smells as sweet as the blossom,
and nothing taste as good as the fruit.

Yet, smells fade & foo rots;
nothing is forever.

But what about the inbetween?
While we hyperfixated on the end,
the blossom enjoyed the journey.

Greeting life as it germinated,
soaking the view from it's branch,
and aging with grace.

Everything may come & go,
so be like the blossom,
and enjoy the journey.

— O.G.

Vice

High;
on life?
In air?
Lettuce?
Higher?

Take your pick,
but whatever you do:
DON"TCOME DOWN

— O.G.

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