Best Trans Poems
I am a girl,
Everyone sees it.
I graciously accept the label,
Twirling in a girls spool,
And playing it up for others.
Sometimes I feel an itch,
In a place I can't reach.
There are times when it quells,
When my voice cracks,
And I am somewhere else.
Where my hair is to my neck,
And my voice bellows.
But I am brought back to reality,
Because I am a girl.
He comes out again,
Stilling me when girls are asked to line up,
Twitching when a teacher asks for a 'strong boy',
I hold him back,
A slap on the wrist,
A prisoner in a cell.
But in the deepest of my thoughts,
I am free,
Completely and utterly.
He is with me,
Unchained,
But it ends every morning I wake.
I step out of the shower,
Hair cascading down,
As I stand in front of my reflective captor,
A deep rumbling comes from inside me,
And he bubbles up to the surface,
Itching and scraping at my soul.
I claw at the confines of my chest,
And he bursts out like dynamite,
Sparks flowing,
Tingles of electricity follow my nerves,
And I truly see him,
Staring back at me,
He smiles softly and my eyes open wide,
The words linger on the tip of my tongue,
But they stay rooted in my brain,
As him and I both realize,
I am a boy.
VELA (CANDLE)First Spanish version, scroll down for English)
Yo ser‚ para ti.
Toda la vida que me queda la vivir‚ para ti
y cuando el tiempo haya terminado,
morir‚ por ti.
Dir‚ tu nombre
en cada vela que encienda, respirar‚ tu nombre.
Te susurrar‚,
cada oraci¢n que diga ser siempre parte de ti.
Por toda la eternidad,
y as¡ ha sido y ser siempre,
y cuando deje este mundo,
aquello vendr conmigo
en la luz de una vela.
Todo el mundo sigue girando, haciendo el d¡a y la noche,
y de la oscuridad a la luz,
ser s siempre parte de cada oraci¢n que yo diga.
Yo ser‚ para ti.
Como una fresca quebrada de la monta¤a que se desborda por ti
como una c lida brisa de verano
entre los rboles para ti.
En el brillo de una vela,
todo lo que he sido o llegue a ser
por toda la eternidad,
tu ser s parte de todo lo que yo haga siempre.
Yo ser‚ para ti.
Traducci¢n: Emilio J. Saavedra M. CANDLE
I will be for you.
All my life that is left, I will live for you,
and when time has run out,
I will die for you.
I will speak your name
in each candle that I light, I will breath your name.
I will whisper you,
every prayer I ever say will be part of you.
For eternity,
and forever it has been, and will always be,
and when I leave this world,
it will go with me.
In a candle light
all the world keeps on turning, making day and night,
and from dark to light,
you'll be part of every prayer that ever comes from me.
I will be for you.
Like a cool mountain spring that overflows for you
like a warm summer breeze
through the trees for you.
In a candle glow,
everything I've ever been or will ever be
for eternity,
you'll be part of everything I ever do.
I will be for you.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
I am transgender, a soul untamed,
Seeking solace, my true self proclaimed.
In this journey, I've found my role,
Here's what I need to be made whole.
Acceptance, a beacon to light my way,
Embracing love, where judgment won't sway.
A mirror that reflects my inner grace,
To see myself, unburdened by the chase.
Understanding hearts, compassionate and kind,
A refuge where I can peace of mind find.
Words of affirmation, whispered in the air,
Affirming my existence, showing they care.
A world that dismantles oppressive walls,
Where equality reigns and prejudice falls.
Opportunities to thrive, without constraint,
For my dreams and talents, a fair playing paint.
Connection to a community, strong and tight,
Where unity blossoms, like stars in the night.
Courage to be vulnerable, without fear,
Knowing my truth is valued and held dear.
I am transgender, bold and unafraid,
Demanding respect, in every accolade.
With these elements, a tapestry untold,
I'll embrace my journey, and forever unfold.
There was something inside him
Screaming to be let out
Screaming to be seen
There was something inside him
But then he understood what it was
And she let it out
Life is to live, live it yourself
Don’t ruin the chance, being someone
Choose your path, chase your dreams
live up to them till you die
No two are same nor their choices
Never hesitate to accept yourself
Being unique is not a sin,
not at least than following the herd
Gender never matters to love someone
Color never matters to love someone
Love is love, no matter who you are
Love is love, no matter whom you love
Lesbian isn’t lousy, lesbian is lovely
Gay isn’t gruesome, gay is a glory
Bi isn’t befouling, bi is blooming
Trans isn’t tainting, trans is twinkling
Not sure of gender? No need to worry,
we all were there at some point.
Feeling asexual? No need to worry,
sex isn’t the only thing to explore.
Not willing to get tagged? No need to worry,
tags never define you as much as you
Willing to support us being straight
Allies are always heartily welcomed
Do you think that ***** is rubbish?
Pray to god to get some brains
Just don’t butt into other’s lives,
mind your business, you homophobe!
Age never matters to be yourself
Religion never matters to be yourself
Life is to live, live it yourself
Don’t ruin the chance, being someone
Thoughts and culture change with time,
so do the laws of land you live
Never give up fighting for equal rights,
fight for the future, fight for yourself.
He, She, they, them, their or choices .
I wonder if your world is round or maybe not because probably your mind is cubical , you are a dice, it is as similar as the dice given as an example of cube , a cube which is closed , has defined corners and one measurement perhaps it would have been better if we could deter to these bold and times old Indian fonts of sterotyped examples and ask for more pentagons and circles which were ***** , just like me .
You love explaining area and mensuration with examples of a gender entangled bangle , a match box that dosent match me , and an unwise dice but little did you realise that you have yourself become a box of typical undynamic identities , closed and formalised with prejudiced formulas of measurement .
So I want to switch your camera from portrait view to a panoramic view to notice that I am a decagon , difficult to the vocabulary of a polygon and unacceptable to the category of human.
Maybe I know that now you are old enough and you've learned about this ***** trans decagon like me but still when you hear about polygons and humans , your answers are straight line segments of triangles & squares and straight people whose gender binary is fair , well unfair to the notions of identity which remains undefined for not just me but also you swinging between choices of being extremely feminine on some days and masculine on others .
You see the problem with this arrangement is confusion of building a glass wall of hatred for people we find strange to our little knowledge of normal , so we assume them to be an abnormal comfort smelter , stone pelter , destined to give us a discomforting experience of flawed birth , flawed to our little knowledge of what's correct .
Them , their , he , She , her aren't identities but preferred pronouns which is a very basic question out of our mean calculative binary syllabus , but a question meant to be inculcated in our cubical boxed syllabus because earth is round and endless and so are my choices .
I am listening to some wonderful music this season.
The Trans-Siberian Orchestra is the reason.
The sounds they produce are a sensation.
Combining modern sounds with classic is a fascination.
Such glorious Christmas music is what they play.
They have me in the spirit for the holiday.
Ignoring those slaughters,
as if there were none.
But one of your daughters
Were always son.
Simce pre-school,
hating all girl toys,
Even though he acted like a fool,
Always was one of the boys.
Confused child,
With mess in his head.
Worthless maybe kinda wild,
Fantasising about his death.
How lovely, I want to find peace.
Honestly I don't think I can.
I wish seken would not call me "miss"
I wish I could be 'real man'
Nothing. Just ignorance.
Humanity is organisation filled with idiots.
Cause they don't let me finish one sentence.
They ask questions, but in the end they write dots.
I'm tired. I want to cry.
Im not sane, can't see no consequence.
I think would kill myself, and die.
I think I would, if I had a chance.
I would drown myself down the river,
I would feel the cold water, as it soaks my clothes.
I would feel comfortable, I wouldn't shiver,
My hair would feel easy as it floats.
What? No I'm not writing about my own suicide.
It feels like speaking to the deaf people, that are dead.
So please, step aside,
And forget everything I said.
Are you a boy
Or are you a girl?
Are you human
Or a mural?
Can I manipulate you
Like clay?
Can I warp your sense of logic
By the twisted thoughts I say?
Fearing what I can't explain
Knowing what I know isn't right
Succumbing to the wave of fright
Humanity believes is a fight
Logic dictates
So I must anticipate
That society won't advance
Due to the present circumstance.
Grace
is not the rather loose reputed love of choice
after natural laws of Earth's justice have been primally satisfied.
Nor is Mercy,
her sister,
a gratuitous co-passionate remainder,
icing on the after thought of justice cake,
after having had Her revengeful way
for sins of our enslaving Fathers.
Rather,
Earth's nature-spirit laws
for protecting nutritional rights and equity
are the evolving justice of last resort
when intrinsic co-empathic trusting grace
has been rejected too often already
within some connecting string of incarnation,
some sacred identity we might and could love
as organically transcendent life itself.
The primary health role of nature's nutritional law,
protection against ecocidal toxins,
security from anthroprivileged injustice,
absence of co-empathic therapeutic trust
as presence of community co-immunity,
is to support effective deep meaningful anticipation,
and not over-reactive wide purposeless anxiety,
toward full development of richly resonant transgenerational relationships,
political and economic musecology.
As a materialistic, yet healthy-social, song and dance species,
we have spent far too much energy
on advocating the triumph of just political relations,
rather than justly cooperative and inclusive economic co-ownership,
rooted in co-empathic gratitude
through listening to and with suffering oppressed fractured species,
stories speaking to our own compassionate voices within,
advocating for future generations of EarthTribe peace.
When our relationship with EarthTribe's Commons
is more about protection from material harm
than loving sustained healthy relationships
rooted in natural-physical
organically inter-religioning
co-infested gratitude for compassion
and outraged attitude against Othering dispassion,
then we are significantly inside and outside the comfort range
of thermodynamic balance,
co-arising trust,
where Grace deteriorates into BadKarma
and restores into GoodKarma
as decomposition informs gratitude's re-incarnate potential
Grace's wealthy step-sister room
for Mercy's further transgenerational
trans generational
transgene rational healthy growth.
Stimming Towards Euphoria
She be riding on that trans train
Lost her wit and half her brain
Next time that I see her
She won't be the woman I know
All it took was a little gender education
The internet and affirming friends galore
To make her see what she was meant to be
Cause she was born in the wrong body
She was born in the wrong body?
She be riding on that trans train
Lost her wit and half her brain
Next time that I see her
She won't be the woman I knew
In her heart and of her body
I'm wise enough to let her go
Cause its way past time for her to know
She is chasing that euphoria
Till there's nothing left of her
Chasing that best stim of all
Euphoria
She be riding on that trans train
Lost her wit and Half her brain
Next time that I see her
She won't be the woman I know
Society is telling her to go go go
Cut herself to pieces
Drink another cup of T
Till there is little left of the woman she knew
So I'm gonna run run run
Cause I can't bear the damage yet to be done
And if she comes around one day
She won't be the woman I knew
Will I love her anyway?
She be riding on that trans train
Lost her wit and half her brain
Next time that I see her
She won't be the woman I know
Trans PORT Station
a hard look in side at how power is misused no one can glide upon rusty shells they tiptoe on the path well meaning people do wrong to innocents in the name of prevention we nip this sort of thing in the bud is what they say to all the kings horses got back together and then worry is a form of communication to a thief a man can give the location away of his riches he pats his pockets a good thief can find the way inside and take it all away the fortune plays for him he has the worlds repsect but not his own he frowns down his nose at all the peers in Rome they have this to a science they teach pickpocketing at Church the pews are lined with rows upon rows near the rectory office sits an alcove with a small work bench upon the bench is found a looking glass it is cracked down the middle on the side of the mirror is some pearls of wisdom found the person using the cracked mirror comes around to religious way of thinking fill the bank with more money make the people give you money add money to the till get money from the will money on a cheque money cash in hand money any way you can you can become saved in the Sanctuary then they will work you in the Bairn they will teach you heap your riches up inside the Lectern we will all be rich from Labor is the Key to money to work to be poor is to be dirt it is hard to eat with strangers what is in the soup will it be enough to go around the room how many bread to pass among the crowd the rich loathes will do how did you get here we drove we rode we flew the poor man walked into the mission bell was never ringing they do not ever seem to call the people to attention at the mission there is no ringing bell calling people to the Church is near the soup kitchen where they keep the money in the Vault away from all of you the money is not true but robbed of tithes and offerings in the plate today the Priest looked down and found the Mirror there intact the Gold and Pearls all told the poor in Heaven now you see them now you d’ont
Looking through the window
Everything seems like a puzzle
His coming ought to rekindle
Instead all have dwindle
Change is all we asked
Not knowing they were masked
Although they were tasked
Everything remain the same
Three square meal
Has become dream
Off course to the peasants
Their people
Have become cable
That is seen in every neighborhood
Across their neck
Is a wood to inflict wound
On people
Although they claim is for their cattle
But we sure know better
Funny it may sound
They are like sand
That is seen everywhere
Ministers have become blisters
In the hands of the peasants
The name may be lai
But the parents mean lie
Truth they say they speak
But lies we know we hear
The cost of living
Has made the peasants livid
Tomatoes have grown toes
Out of the market
Yet store houses grow millions of naira everyday
The planter we know not
The keeper we know not
The owner we know not
Oh my father's land!!
I hear there is a change
A change we never asked for
Is it an America based president?
Or the federal palace has a new headquarter?
No one knows the answer
Oh! Nigeria my father land
Its now in a farther land
Where can be reach by the rich
The ruled have no clue
Instead they have been gripped by grippe and grief
We were told that the arena was filled with milk and honey
What we now see is Sickness and mourning
Men on black have become terror and horror
Off course to the peasants
Need less to say , they are morons
Protection have been substituted for extortion
The white men see them as gods
Here, they are best described as dogs
On them are lies instead of lice
Law makers;
I mean,
Law breakers
Are the least of the shame we now have
We now have wrestlers in our chambers
Maze have become swords
Automatically our chambers have become battle field
Their shame has become their fame
Wooowuuuu
The erudite are not left behind
In fact they are fart that has polluted our arena
Years after years
Justice have been denied
We need TRANS-CHANGERS!!
We need transformed men and women!
Not transformation!
We need changed men and women!
Not Change!
A lone stoic blackbird
sat on a lamp post squawking
away; his eerie crowing
piercing the graveyard silence.
The sleepy yawning sun
pulled himself up
and over the shading horizon;
reflecting a golden glow.
The quiet air was as still as
an aged autumn tree—standing
all alone—naked, and as shameless
as was Joan of Arc, herself.
Springtime has long passed on
and autumn/fall has begun to wane;
however, the morning sun slowly prepares
himself to resist the coming tease of winter.
There's a constant drone in the back of my head
Hide them
Hide them
Hide them
Hide them
A constant drone that turns my vision red
Hide them
Hide them
Hide them
Hide them
Snap
Snap
Snap
Snap
Every picture hurts
Crack
Crack
Crack
Crack
The facade's about to burst