#16 word poem

[poemsonmars]

i thought that the poets

were just being dramatic

like they so often tend to do

until i met you, my love.

until i met you.

-mars

[thisismynamenowxpoetry]

How many more people will you have to torment before you'll ever be ready for the word love?

[im-an-anthusiast]

Grasp Of Gold

Eyes drawn to a gleaming, golden glow

It spreads with a pace not at all slow

From my fingers to all that I grasp

Spreads gold, eliciting a sweet gasp

All that I touch, it turns into gold

All that I touch, it betters tenfold

All that I touch, they love to behold

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Everything, so much better like this

Turned gold, filling anyone with bliss

Turned gold at a graze, at a mention

Why would that not be my intention?

Must be made use of, before it’s gone

Gold – they say – such a precious metal

Weight so crushing, far more than a tonne

Snapping my neck, with each new medal

All that I touch, it’s good, I’ve been told

All that I touch, like in tales of old

All that I touch, its fate, long foretold

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Gleaming hands trailing all in their reach

Drenching all things in a golden bleach

Shining fingers rammed deep in my core

So that I may be what you adore

Will you hold dear, all that I will hold?

In spite of? Because of? I can’t tell

Will you cherish, all that I turn gold?

Is there an end to this lustrous well?

All that I touch, is it what I’m told?

All that I touch, is it what it’s called?

All that I touch, will it rust, when old?

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Hands around my neck, glistening gold

Hot flesh and blood turn overly cold

A golden statue, for you to see

Isn’t that what you want me to be?

And if the gold ever goes matted?

Will you still be there, for me to hold?

Or has what I am never mattered?

Am I naught, without my grasp of gold?

All that I touch, has to be turned gold

All that I touch, must better tenfold

All that I touch, they have to behold

All that I touch, with this grasp of gold

Eyes drawn to a dreaded, golden glow

It spreads with a pace that feels too slow

From my fingers to all that I grasp

Spreads gold, eliciting that sick gasp

[helloimtired]

I remember and remember

what others seem to forget,

forgotten promises make me simmer

and overthinking fills my head

it's unfair of me to feel this way

because I fail to bring things up

but then I bottle it up until I break

and the unspoken thoughts eventually erupt

sometimes sobbing just comes naturally

with the simplest of things

and though few of my fears have any accuracy,

somehow insecurity, they still bring

i overcompensate in kind gestures

and while they do have a deep meaning,

they're more so just measures

to keep people from leaving

so I apologize in advance

if my attempts at emotion fall short

and while I constantly prove I don't deserve a chance

I still greatly long for understanding and support

[gay-impressionist]

For the last day of Pride month 🏳️‍🌈, I thought I'd share with you this wonderful poem from @spondeesoliloquy that has stayed with me ever since I first read it. So much that I printed it and framed it in my kitchen. Please take the time to read it and let it sink into your heart and mind.

Seventeen things you have to learn for yourself

as a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, Pansexual

or otherwise Queer youth

by the time you are seventeen.

One is that the first Pride was a riot

I don’t mean that it was full of laughter, or that it was some grand party

where everyone spiraled up to dance among the stars

because the only glittering that night

was broken glass on cobblestones.

The first Pride was a riot

on the backstreets of New York

and they never tell us

that night

we won.

The only protest

in a decade full of turmoil

where the cops had to hide out in the bar they raided

and run from shouting rioters

who fought to reclaim the only patch of ground they had ever claimed as theirs

the first Pride was a riot,

and two, around the same time it took place

it was a debated topic in the gay community

whether or not they should say

that they weren’t mentally ill

which, three, homosexuality was removed

from the American Psychiatric Association’s list of mental illnesses

in 1974

congratulations

all it took was a vote to declare that, whoops, we were never mentally ill

except, four, there are still teenagers being tortured today

in what some dare blaspheme as “therapy”

used to destroy their self-identity

in the hopes of making them normal.

except, four, the queer community still carries overwhelmingly high rates for poverty and homelessness and depression.

Did you know that, five,

over half the children forced into conversion therapy

commit suicide?

And six, that lesbians

were regarded as “hangers-on”

of the movement

by much of the gay community

before the AIDS crisis?

Because it turns out, seven can wear a rainbow on your shirt

and still be a bigot.

There are people who stick rainbows in their ears

or wear them on their fingers

or slap them across their cheeks in badges of defiance

and will still hate you for the color of your skin

or the size of your thighs

or your gender

or the way you like to kiss two or more genders

or none of the above.

Don’t ask me why this happens

it just does

I think it might be that we’ve all been taught to hate ourselves

for so damn long

that we don’t understand what to do

in a space with no hate.

Or maybe it’s that the space seems too small, because

eight, there are people who will tell you that you are not enough

that you do not reach the magical benchmark of “gay enough” to pass through the gate even

especially

when you are some flavor of the rainbow other than straight-out gay.

eight, this is bullshit

eight, those people are bullshit.

eight, you are enough.

eight, there is always enough room.

nine, there is no overarching “homosexual agenda”

sorry

we’re all kind of flailing along in here trying to figure out some way to make it work

when most of us have nothing in common

except that society looked at us in different ways and decided we didn’t fit

so we could all go be misfits together

under one big rainbow flag

but just so you know, ten, there are plenty of other flags

there is one for you, I promise

and eleven, misfits may not all need the same things

but we need to stick together, especially in a world where

twelve—refer to point seven—there are lesbians who hate other lesbians

for having the audacity to be born in a body

that everyone looked at and saw “boy”

which brings me to

thirteen, there is so much to understand.

fourteen, you need to understand

because we need to stick together

and to stick together we do not have to be the same but we do have to understand

and it will be hard because

you were probably thrown into this world with no warning because

fifteen, being queer is not genetic and we are not unique among minorities

in that we collect our heritage through broken bits of history and research in a world constantly working to make those misfit bits go away

but we are unique in that when we try to prove our legacy

we can be laughed down

or re-erased

or flat out ignored

but I swear to you

you have a history as old as Alexander the Great

as beautiful as Sappho

as dignified as Abraham Lincoln

and as proud as Eleanor Roosevelt.

But even with that behind us

sixteen,

they have always watched us die.

because even though the bystander effect is bullshit, sixteen

Kitty Genovese was a lesbian, sixteen

Ronald Reagan is a mass murderer, sixteen

our children, your brothers and sisters and  siblings of all stripes and all colors and sexualities and genders are being murdered

through neglect

and rejection

and hate.

Sixteen, there is an entire generation of gay and bisexual men

missing from history

because the government chose to do nothing

when they were dying by the thousands.

sixteen, we died from the disease and died from going back into the closet and died for staying there and died for coming out,

sixteen, they laughed at us because they believed god was punishing us for daring to love,

sixteen, ashes of your forerunners rest on the lawn of the White House because

SIXTEEN, THEY HAVE ALWAYS WATCHED US DIE.

SEVENTEEN

you are allowed

to be angry.

You do not have to be one of the nice gays

or one of the nice trans people

or sweet or kind or educate the rest of the world in something less than a yell

you are allowed to be so furious it scalds your bones

at the way we are forgotten

and passed over

at the way, as soon as June becomes July

we are expected

to go back to dying in silence

and mourning our dead

and kissing all alone

when no one can be offended

at the sight of us.

You are allowed to be angry

and scream down the stars

to shatter like broken glass at your feet

because you know what?

The first Pride

was a riot.

- October 11 2016

[peace-and-light-poetry]

“Flat” Doesn’t Apply

She could look down And they’re there “Flat” isn’t a word

That applies

No, that would be stupid They were big but not too much so Though, she did wonder

If she should lop them off (to better fit into things)

No, “flat” never applied Her rear came in before her front Puberty hit her

Like a hail of cinderblocks

“Flat” could never apply Considering the “Bosoms vs Backsides” question Her male classmates asked her

And the answer she gave (“Both” of course)

“Flat” a word she can laugh at.

[getcareless]

Impersonal

Impersonal like you’re so fake.

There’s proof in the pudding.

Whenever it ends my heart dies.

I heard hell froze over.

Impersonal, I’m tired of the games.

You disappeared without a trace.

I saw the moon light up your face.

I feel like I’ve been misplaced.

I’m tired of the chase.

JEP

[amalgamationink]

(it is not the end. it just feels that way.)

[somanywhatifs]

Silence

Silence so loud That I'm thinking in whispers

Silent, in doubt My thoughts getting twisted

Silence so strong That it's weighing me down

Silent too long My thoughts whirling around

Silence too loud My thoughts have to break out

[euesworld]

"My fav style is your smile, your smile lights up my sky for thousands of miles.."

It's almost as if the stars were created for you, each and every one.. yes, even the sun.. just so there would be light so that I could drool foolishly at your smile - eUë

[bluemartiann]

The Way

It can be difficult,

In some moments, maybe the most difficult thing,

To not feel like the stone around which the river of people passes through,

To not hear the sound of your own voice tainted with cruelty against you,

To not feel like the dead, crisp autumn leaf that people can walk all over- taking turns in breaking it apart,

To not let the air that you breathe become a burden on your heart,

It's difficult, the truth is out in the Sun,

Yet we all bleed such pains often,

There is nothing we can say,

We've been taught - keeping quiet, and following the track is the way,

And we believe it's okay, not to be okay.

- Rune

[revenantpoet]

Glaucus

They call me A “non-Newtonian fluid” As if that encompasses me Fluid and solid at the same time, yes But what about flying and sinking all at once? What about breathing fire and crying ice simultaneously?

They look at me At my glaucous scales My gossamer wings Melting and forming Trying to identify the silvery substance That makes up me

Fools They try and apply logic and reason to chaos Try to define magic with science There are some things that are beyond description Past the grasp of human consciousness Undefinable and unattainable Just out of reach For a good reason

Just Like Me

[roaringroa]

ok so like 2 weeks before i started dating my gf, back in january, i started a word document with the poems i was writing about her and when i was in my head about asking her to date me i wrote my thoughts there like a diary and so ever since then whenever i write a poem about her or when i'm thinking about how much i love her and feel the need to express it somewhere i write there. after like 2 months of doing this i thought to myself wait, i should totally make a little book and give this to her for our one year anniversary. and so that is the plan and i think she's gonna love it.

however... It's at 57 pages and 11k words as of now. and we'll only be 4 months into dating in like 3 days, so if i continue writing at the same pace that i'm currently doing it's probably gonna triple the length lol. is that too much? like it would be 175 pages long nfaodfpsd i don't want her to have to read through an actual entire book long of mediocre poems and nonsensical rambling.

i could gift it to her at our 6 months anniversary but i think it's still a little early for something like that...

anyway, i think i'll still gift it to her at our one year. but yeah, maybe when i reread the whole thing through in like 8 months i'll cut some passages out dasfdlnj

[drowningincaffiene]

"oh yeah dude im like totally over it, its been 5 years now like come on"

meanwhile my fucking poetry journal:

[glockg1rl]

16

< apples >

vermillion beauty

early sun bathes fall's finest

its dewdrops glisten

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.