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Black / Mind Matter

Who is your saboteur?

Who is he, that pops his head,
when you are up, to pull you down?
Who breaks your back, when you stand up,
and keeps you under, to ensure you drown?

Who, young doe, can be so bold?

Does he have a name,
a face, or kin?
Does he live within your crevasses,
and break through your paper skin?

Who, red one, has spilt thy blood?

Who knows thy weakness,
from thy form?
Who pulls you deeper,
into the storm?

Who, tender dead, has made you so weak?

Rash, and unholy,
who has kept you this meek?
Quite, and unspoken,
who has brought you this sleep?

Who, pray tell, is your saboteur?
Who wants you dead from within?

Is it you, from five years ago?
Or the boy, who in the mirror stares?
Or the man you are, with the men you lay?
Or the man for whom your parents pray?

Who, pray tell, sweet light of mine, is your real saboteur?

Little Console

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Mind Matter / Shorts

There is little console in knowing who you are,
or the battles you’ve fought that’s torn you apart,
or the spite you’ve endured to get that far,
there is little console and lesser healing–
Lesser; if none,
If you’re staying here.

If I were to tell you today that I am wrong,
would it change the way you see yourself–
the way you’ve acted, and moved?
Would it give you perspective,
or allow you change?
Do I have that much control over your being and form,
that a word from my lips could influence you thus–
Are you not stronger than you make yourself out to be?
Are you not stronger–
than me?

The Song Of The Trees

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Places / White

I wake up, happy–
although still heavy.
I decide to go walking,
to break the levee–
on my heart.

The leaves whisper to me,
the shy truths of the rains;
tiny truths that fit into a larger frame,
the truths that arose from the depths of the sea,
where the heart of our lands is said to be.

I listen with intent,
as the rustling dies down,
for the end of those pages
is revealed to be torn.

Thus, for the truth as a whole,
I must return once more
to hear the song of the trees,
and the cries of the sea.

When The World Doesn’t

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Self-help / Shorts

You see everything when the world doesn’t see you,
the trees that line the street to your house,
the mouths that whisper incessantly,
and the smiles that aren’t so.

You see everything when the world doesn’t see you,
everything but yourself.

You hear everything when the world doesn’t hear you,
the silence in the rejection,
of every hand you’ve ever held,
and all the pain that it has felt.

You hear everything when the world doesn’t hear you,
everything, but your breathing.

You feel everything when the world doesn’t feel you,
the pain of hurting from staying too long,
in a space that makes you smaller,
a space where you don’t belong.

You feel everything when the world doesn’t feel you,
everything ,but you dying.

Like him

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LGBT / White

Today, the 6th of September, 2018 marks a historical day in India where gay sex has been legalized. And in this great step toward equality, me, and all the other queer boys and girls who have ever been made feel different, have a shot at love, and hapiness, in a more accepting setting. This is a poem dedicated to my hope. In love. In destiny.

I wish upon every shooting star,
That I find a man like him.
–Who would give me the world and then five more–
For whom I am the Sun and Moon;
The stars and all the planets.

I hope, Mother, that he has your eyes;
Ever gentle, ever kind.
I hope, Father, that he has your heart;
Ever strong and ever loving.
I hope he gives our children–
The love you’ve given yours.
I hope he gives them wisdom,
Enough to let them grow.

I hope he loves me deeply;
And as wide as you did Mom.
I hope he holds my body,
And will forever call it home.

I’ll sing a name each night like a hymn,
In hopes of finding someone like him.

Foreign 808s (Heartaches)

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Shorts / White

I see the boys running,
I know that they’re there;
and I know that for me,
they might not care;
yet something within me,
finds home in their eyes,
amidst all the tears,
I’ve imagined them cry.

Inevitably I find myself falling deeply in love with strangers from foreign lands.
Inevitably I find myself daydreaming about a kiss, or a touch.
Inevitably I begin to lose myself in this fantasy in my mind.
Inevitably I wake. Inevitably.

Meaningless encounters,
seek meaning in my head.
Like meaningful encounters, 
with the souls of the dead.

When I learn a new language, I learn first to say, “I’m Sorry”, and “It’s Okay”, for then I will know what to say to myself when I must pick up my heart, when it lays in pieces, in the throes of  a foreign dark.

Deep red veins,
through which I swim–
If only I’d known of your bleeding ocean,
before I jumped in.