All Poems Written By Me

Pfp by @naylissah They/them, vo/void, and other neo pronouns Voidpunk All rights reserved. Don’t repost without my permission or credit. This account is anti AI

[mypoetrynotebook]

Meet the writer

Hey, welcome to my blog! This is a side blog for me to basically have a place to keep and share all my poetry outside of open mic nights

My main blog is @northlight14 so if you see any work on there that is repeated here, I promise it’s the same person, not me stealing

I’m a British, queer, neurodivergent leftist and this is heavily reflected in my work. Don’t like it? Leave🤷

I’m 21 years old and my writing is still developing as I do. I take constructive criticism

I’m aiming to get at least one poem posted every month

Thank you for being here and giving my writing a chance❤️

[mypoetrynotebook]

It’s Not Romantic

It’s not romantic.

It’s safety, in a way I’ve never felt.

I flap my hands and clap,

A risk as far as I’m concerned,

And they tell me they love it

Because it means I’m happy.

Not a socially approved,

Peer reviewed,

Passing happiness.

Just happy.

I didn’t even know I’d been lacking that.

It’s not romantic,

But they’re the only one allowed to hold me.

Their touch is safe,

Because they’re safe.

Checking in,

No excuses,

Is this still ok?

Yes, I promise, I’d tell you otherwise,

Because I know your expression won’t turn pained or cold if I do,

God, was I always this touch starved?

Can I hold your hand in the markets,

And link our arms at concerts,

And rest my head on yours

Until it’s time for us to separate again?

It’s not romantic,

But I show them my poetry

And they tell me my words are pretty.

I keep my favourite photos of them in a gallery on my phone.

Messages that make my chest swell,

Or photos of their smile,

I like to keep them in my pocket.

Did you know I never normally miss people?

Tell me what you have done to alter my mind

in such a fundamental way,

But don’t you dare reverse it.

Just let me write my poems about you,

So when they tell me my words are pretty,

I know it’s because they’re a reflection of them.

It’s not romantic,

But I think about our home,

The one we will share.

I ruminate on the dogs, and cats,

And the movies watched,

Curled up on the sofa,

A pizza box next to us.

I tell my mum four years,

Smiling like a lovestruck kid.

She says it feels like it’s been longer.

My mum and dad adore them,

As do my grandma, and grandpa, and sister.

“I never want to get married” was always my insistence,

The concept lost on my aromantic heart.

But still I chose that Avril Lavigne song to play, should I change my mind,

Before I knew my lack of interest wasn’t a choice.

Neither of us are ready for that yet,

But when that song plays they’re all I think about,

Because they’re the only one I could let myself play it for.

And no, it’s not romantic.

I wouldn’t want it if it was.

But I do,

Because it’s not anything but ours.

[an-autistic-archivist]

Guys I sent my zucchini this like “made me think of you” and I think I broke him......

[mypoetrynotebook]

^^ straight up few things make me happier than when other people in QPR’s send my poems to their zucchini/partners. That shit makes my day, it’s so sick. Glad you both like😁

[mypoetrynotebook]

It’s Not Romantic

It’s not romantic.

It’s safety, in a way I’ve never felt.

I flap my hands and clap,

A risk as far as I’m concerned,

And they tell me they love it

Because it means I’m happy.

Not a socially approved,

Peer reviewed,

Passing happiness.

Just happy.

I didn’t even know I’d been lacking that.

It’s not romantic,

But they’re the only one allowed to hold me.

Their touch is safe,

Because they’re safe.

Checking in,

No excuses,

Is this still ok?

Yes, I promise, I’d tell you otherwise,

Because I know your expression won’t turn pained or cold if I do,

God, was I always this touch starved?

Can I hold your hand in the markets,

And link our arms at concerts,

And rest my head on yours

Until it’s time for us to separate again?

It’s not romantic,

But I show them my poetry

And they tell me my words are pretty.

I keep my favourite photos of them in a gallery on my phone.

Messages that make my chest swell,

Or photos of their smile,

I like to keep them in my pocket.

Did you know I never normally miss people?

Tell me what you have done to alter my mind

in such a fundamental way,

But don’t you dare reverse it.

Just let me write my poems about you,

So when they tell me my words are pretty,

I know it’s because they’re a reflection of them.

It’s not romantic,

But I think about our home,

The one we will share.

I ruminate on the dogs, and cats,

And the movies watched,

Curled up on the sofa,

A pizza box next to us.

I tell my mum four years,

Smiling like a lovestruck kid.

She says it feels like it’s been longer.

My mum and dad adore them,

As do my grandma, and grandpa, and sister.

“I never want to get married” was always my insistence,

The concept lost on my aromantic heart.

But still I chose that Avril Lavigne song to play, should I change my mind,

Before I knew my lack of interest wasn’t a choice.

Neither of us are ready for that yet,

But when that song plays they’re all I think about,

Because they’re the only one I could let myself play it for.

And no, it’s not romantic.

I wouldn’t want it if it was.

But I do,

Because it’s not anything but ours.

[mypoetrynotebook]

They asked you a question

They asked a question

And you know the answer

But shut up.

Shut up because you don’t want to be the

“Well actually” person,

The know it all,

The sweat,

The “I’m so quirky and different” person

So shut up.

Shut up because you know too much.

Shut up because you get too passionate when you talk.

Shut up I know they asked

But they don’t actually want to know.

They’re not volunteering to hear your infodumping

So shut up.

Shut up.

Shut. Up.

People like you aren’t allowed to be smart.

They asked a question,

And you don’t know the answer

Because you’re stupid

And they know it.

They all do.

Can’t you hear them laughing?

Laughing,

Laughing,

Laughing at you?

Give an educated guess

Or else.

You’re the one who still counts on their fingers,

Who barely got through high school,

Who writes too slow.

You have to prove them wrong,

Come on, prove them wrong!

People like you aren’t allowed to be dumb.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Born to be a martyr

I was not born to be a martyr.

I was born to be my parents child,

A younger sibling,

A grandchild.

I was born to read,

And write.

Tell stories,

Speak free verse into a mic.

Play dungeons and dragons on the weekends,

Doodle in notebooks,

Stay up a bit too late,

And nap during the day.

Watch Netflix with my mum,

Feel sick over exams,

Hold hands with my partner,

Listen to music too loud,

And celebrate my birthday, and Halloween and Christmas.

I was born to eat the same food as cisgender people.

I was born to breathe the same air.

I was born to live a life

Not all too different to theirs.

I was not born to fight.

I was not born to be a martyr.

But I was also born to be trans.

And so I will be.

[mypoetrynotebook]

A Poem Dedicated to Strangers

It is said that when a writer writes about you,

You live forever.

What a great power it is,

And one I’d like to use,

Even if my power is hardly much of anything.

So this poem is dedicated

to the man in Newcastle I saw

Dressed head to toe in Greggs merchandise.

Greggs hoodie, Greggs joggers, Greggs crocs, Greggs hat,

I can only assume this was Gregg himself

Out in the wild.

To the gentleman in black loafers,

Baby pink socks,

Green trousers,

White button up,

Baby blue bow tie

And tan jacket.

Dressed like a pastel rainbow lawyer

And I have no idea what the occasion was

But I will wonder for the rest of my life

And smile.

It’s dedicated to the woman who got out of her car

And got my attention through my headphones

Because I’d dropped a £5 note

Walking back from high school.

At the time I had been drowning in a depressing haze

And I needed a kindness only a stranger could give that day.

To the girls I met walking home at 11:30 at night.

Myself and the group had spotted some conflict between men

And they’d crossed the road to avoid it

Only to join me.

We never exchanged names

But they talked to me about their housemate issues

And laughed with me.

My last words to them were

“Good luck with your housemate”

And I’ll never know how it did go.

But I know I felt safer walking with them.

This poem is dedicated to the Hindu man

Giving away free books

Who complimented my hair and asked if I was an artist.

To the women with white hair and wrinkled faces

Who still walk in a pair of stilettos flawlessly

Or dye their hair the colour of cotton candy.

The people on trains or benches

Who shared smiles or laughs.

The people on tumblr who leave kind words

On my poetry and art

Or offer advice when needed.

The man I saw wearing a fantastic cowboy hat

For seemingly no reason.

I do not know any of your names.

But every one brought some small joy,

And made an impact either big or small.

So I dedicate this poem to strangers,

And hope this lets them live forever.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Times I Saw My Grandad

My Grandad is dead.

Please hold your condolences;

He left this world before I came into it.

I have only ever seen his face though photographs

Blurred from childhood memory

So I cannot safely say I know what he looked like.

But still, I have seen him.

I saw him as a child when I was curled up on the sofa with my dad.

It was the night before Father’s Day and I asked

If he was excited.

He said no, I asked why, and he asked in response

“Where’s my dad?”

I saw him again as a child,

Through my dads stories

Always told with a great load of laughter.

How his family screamed at the thunderstorm

Happening with the clouds right over their house

But he instead had laughed.

I saw him as a teenager,

Though I didn't know it.

My dad yelled at me over not being in bed on time.

The next day he was filled with so much remorse, Apologising up and down,

Told me he didn't like to yell at me,

And I believe that

Because he never did before,

Or since.

I saw him after my dyslexia testing.

My dad said he had dyslexia too,

So I guess that’s where I got it from.

Dad told me how he’d written him a letter once,

The handwriting a mess.

But it touched him because it was clear

He’d made an effort.

I saw him as a young adult,

Watching a new show with my dad.

The main character, a little boy,

Spoke of how he needed to be strong

So he could stay with his father

And handle his cruelty.

My own father left the room.

And when he returned he hugged me,

Crying a little.

It didn’t take much to put two and two together.

I think dad sees him in me too.

Like when I tell him about my favourite book,

Originally written in Japanese,

And in turn he tells me how he saw his dad reading a Japanese book too.

I don’t know if I’d like him in return.

As I grow older, I see more of him.

I didn’t know him,

But I know he was a funny man,

An intelligent man,

A man who tried,

And a man who failed.

Complicated, messy, and human.

How interesting it is, that we can see long dead men,

In our fathers.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Alexithymic Writer

“Writers have to be able to use words to describe emotions”

Is what they tell me.

And believe me I try

But my mind has taken “show don’t tell”

To the next level,

Never telling me how I feel,

Only showing when it’s bubbling over,

Through headaches,

Lock jaw,

Racing heart,

Rocking back and forth back and forth,

Or crying during conversation

But never able to explain why.

I can tell you why the curtains in this scene are green,

But don’t ask me if I’m excited

I think I am.

I want to be.

I should be.

But when what is exciting me reaches its peak,

I’ll be nothing but a hollow shell of disappointment,

The idea is always better than the real thing.

Emotion is something to perform,

Because a lack of it leads to upsetting others,

And I’d rather force the excitement

I know I’m feeling deep down

Than for them to feel sadness undiluted.

My heart speaks to me only through

A muffled telephone.

It tells me sometimes that I feel bad,

But offers no specifics.

So I play guess who with myself

Is it sadness?

Anger?

Tired?

Hungry?

I haven’t eaten today so that could be it,

But maybe that deadline is just really getting to me.

Its a funny thing,

Not knowing something so simple.

Ironic how I write

About how I’m feeling so frequently,

I must confess

I think the only way I understand myself

Is through metaphors and free verse.

But between then,

Through headaches,

Lock jaw,

Racing heart,

Rocking back and forth back and forth,

Or crying during conversation

But never able to explain why.

Sometimes I wish deeply

For someone to please tell me how I feel.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Real Things my High School Teachers Said

(Content warning: there is one line containing mentions of rape and victim blaming. Also implied mental health issues)

—

“We care about you.”

“Feeling stressed? Well that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

“No it wasn’t a mental breakdown. If it was, you’d have been hospitalised. I know it probably felt like it, but it wasn’t.”

“You just need to try harder.”

“Why did you just let me yell at you instead of telling me you already had this written down?!”

“I’m worried for you doing your GCSE’s then.”

“Teachers have to stay as politically neutral as possible. We aren’t allowed to tell you what to think.”

“Communism is bad because-“

“Are you an anarchist? You better not take me to anything sketchy!”

“The KKK aren’t considered a terrorist organisation because you can’t tell people what to think.”

“Girls need to be careful with what they’re wearing to PE”

“You might be smart enough to not get raped, but other people might not think”

“People get made fun of for having ginger hair but I think girls with light hair are really attractive.”

“Are there any teachers you’re comfortable talking to?”

….

“I’d be really concerned if the answer was no.”

[mypoetrynotebook]

My Escape

(Today is the anniversary of when I started playing my first long term dnd character so naturally posting this today. Love her sm)

—

When the deadlines are too stressful,

And my loved ones are sick,

And politics has gone to shit,

And the worlds temperature just keeps rising,

I roll a 20 sided dice.

And together with a ragtag group of misfits,

We travel the world,

Praised for being able to actually do something to fix it.

For 3 hours I transform,

Pale skin to purple and horned,

And jeans to dresses.

Let me tell you, my girl is painfully awkward,

But the party loves her for it.

Typically the brains of the operation,

And no one questions that

even when she infodumps,

Or fidgets,

Or doesn’t quite get social cues.

To quote a fellow adventurer,

“That’s just Hecate.”

Unmasked and understood,

It’s funny how I rarely feel more myself,

Then when I’m pretending to be someone else.

Or my agender icon.

No one looks twice when they sport

makeup and a suit

Or a dress and short hair.

Through their voice I speak up

About my endless anxieties,

And self loathing,

And loneliness.

And it’s ok because it’s their problem.

Not mine.

And their friends tell them it’s ok.

And I believe them.

The NPC’s within the world are a whole other deal.

I’ve found myself imagining scenarios

With a smiling tabaxi with a love of the ocean

In order to help me go to sleep

Because he doesn’t comfort just my girl.

Or the mentors who listen when we say there’s a problem,

Or the sentient sand we attempted to adopt,

Or, hells, even the fucking owner of the bakery “Ben’s Buns”

Named because our DM hadn’t planned that interaction

And gave us all a good laugh.

With every stranger we meet

A connection is formed

And it never matters much that they aren’t technically real.

And once the sun sets in the fantasy land

We take a long rest.

And once we wake,

we’ll ready our armour and swords.

So even when in the real world I can’t breath,

I can still slay a dragon.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Can You Dumb That Down?

When someone asks me what my gender is

What I *think*

is that it’s pretty hard to pin down.

I stick to labels like librafluid,

and genderqueer,

and alexigender,

and transmasc.

Call me dude, bro, “my guy”, boy

But I’m not a man.

Well, unless you’re saying something like

“My man!” Because that’s different.

And certainly speaking I’m not a lady,

But I am to the girl who approached me for help

Because she didn’t want to ask a guy,

In which case I absolutely am a proud member of the sisterhood.

My gender is non existent,

But sometimes I don’t mind when you call me miss

And sometimes I want to cut my own tits off

But binders are less dangerous so let’s stick with that.

I say “I wanna look like that” with equal passion

To boys in skirts,

To Jack Skellington from Nightmare Before Christmas,

To a goddamn photoshopped picture of someone with a tv for a head.

Its ever weaving,

Simultaneously nothing and everything and ever changing,

But I never quite know when it’s changed

Until I’m referred to in just the right or wrong way

Or I look myself in the mirror a little too hard after getting dressed,

And yes only after.

It’s perfectly summed up in song lyrics,

And yet impossible for me to explain coherently.

An abstract concept

That only gets more abstract.

But when someone asks me what my gender is,

What I say *out loud* is

“Oh I’m non-binary and use they/them”.

And out loud they say “can you dumb that down?”

[mypoetrynotebook]

October 15th

(This poem was written in 2024 and is outdated as a result but I’m still sharing because yeah)

—

On October 15th 2019

I was sat with my mum in her car.

We were pulled up at the driveway,

And the dark of the night hid my face as I weeped in her arms.

My brain yelled at me like never before

A mixture of warnings it had already threatened me with

And a desperate pleading for help

And amongst the chaos of my mind

On that October 15th I spoke aloud for the first time to another person

The way I’d give into my most self hating urges

Did the unthinkable to my body because it was the only thing I could think of to make myself feel happy again.

Voice barely there

It’s a miracle my mum heard me at all.

But she did.

I waited for her to yell,

Or cry,

Or look at me with fear

But instead she held me in her arms.

She asked where I did it

And, her voice calm as ever, asked me to promise to not do it again.

I said I would try

But with the urges so strong I didn’t think I’d last a week.

On October 15th 2020

I sat on my bed

Hands trapped underneath my legs so that I wouldn’t be a danger to myself.

It had been a whole year

A year of fidget toys,

Breathing techniques,

And decorating my arms with highlighters instead of scratches or bruises

I was proud of myself for the progress but

What was that progress when the urges still consumed my brain if even a little thing went wrong?

I cried myself to sleep that night and wondered

When it would end

Would it even end at all

Or had I ruined myself just that much?

On October 15th 2021 and 2022

I bought myself a chocolate cupcake in celebration.

The cupcake came in a pack of two

But I shared it with no one

Just like secret of what I used to do

It was 3 years clean and 3 years since talking about it.

But even so,

Even with the occasional itch of my arm

And voice of an urge

The lead up was…calmer.

Not cured but improving and all on my own

The sweet chocolate taste in my mouth was a simple but needed reminder that in only 3 years

I’d gone from thinking I deserved pain and misery,

To thinking I deserve to smile and mean it.

That maybe, just maybe

I wasn’t as worthless as my darkest thoughts believed.

On October 15th 2023

There was no build up.

No urges flooding my brain

Or making my arms itch.

No high lighter filling my arm

Or sitting on my hands

Or counting to 20.

No instead I shared a chocolate cupcake, from that packet of 2 with my partner

The only person I was brave enough to share my secret with.

It hadn’t been a planned confession

In fact I shook and sobbed as I spoke it

But we toasted the cakes and stood at the train station with the sweet taste of chocolate and pride in my mouth

I breathed easier

And when I got home I wrapped my arms around myself just like I used to

And hoped that hug would reach a younger me

One asking if they were just too ruined

And whispering to her no you’re not

You’re not ruined at all

And I am here speaking this poem because you let me even when your mind begged you not to.

So here’s to another October 15th

And the chocolate that reminds me that things can get better.

Sometimes it just takes time.

[mypoetrynotebook]

A Kinder God

Today I killed a man in cold blood.

Don’t worry, he wasn’t real.

No, he was a man I’d created in my mind,

Woven into a fictional story,

The gun I shot him with was made of words,

And the blood spilled

Was the ink from my pen staining my hand.

No, he was not real.

But the tears I cried when I killed him were.

I watched him cry,

And heard his last words echo,

He didn’t even bother to beg for his life.

And that just made it worse

Because I knew it was because I did not just kill him.

No, from the moment of his creation I tortured him.

Trauma builds character

And his character was built on trauma.

I was far from kind at every turn

From refusing him a parents love,

To making his classmates fear him unjustly,

To making his girlfriend use him,

To adding neurodivergence into his brain chemistry

And all that comes with it

But refusing him a diagnosis or help

Because if I can’t get a diagnosis,

He doesn’t get one, right?

By the time his end came

His death was a mercy

And yet I still wept and craved to hug him

And fantasised about a world where he got what he deserved.

They say humans are born to die.

I do not know if that is true

But I do know, my beloved character,

That you most certainly were.

Your death was a necessary sacrifice

So I salute and thank you

And lament about how you deserved better.

I wonder if this is how God felt

When Jesus was strung up on the cross

Just as unjustly

And just as fated.

You may not be real

But my love for you is

And I know I sound completely deluded

But even though you’re dead

And woven from words

You still came from me

Like a child from a mother

And although I had to kill you,

Know that I am still recovering from your loss

And that I am sincerely sorry

For not being a kinder God.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Defining A Woman

(This poem was written when Rishi Sunak was the UK’s Prime Minister and is as a result out of date. That said, this blog is dedicated to all my poetry and I still think it holds up. Not to mention it did pretty well on tumblr when I uploaded it onto my main blog a while back and I’m still pretty happy with it, hence the repost)

—

To Rishi Sunak.

A genocide in Gaza

A housing crisis

And Global warming

Just a few items on the long list of things

That you are supposed to help with.

And yet, you, prime minister decided that

“Defining a woman” was the most important one.

The same day I first heard you say

“A man is a man and a woman is a woman”

I had my hair cut off and taped my tits

A coincidence I’ll admit

But no other coincidence has ever felt so rebellious

My body never felt so right

And your “common sense” was proven wrong by scientists many times over

But we both know you don’t care about science.

You stand up there and claim you’re “protecting the children”

While making a jab in front of the mother of one of our dead trans sisters

I have to ask, was that 16 year old a threat to you?

Brianna Ghey, may she rest in peace.

Requested an apology

That interview answer was the longest no I’ve ever heard

You say our healthcare is damaging to children

Calling us pedophiles and groomers and delusional

Block your ears to actual science

And your own party’s rape and pedophile accusations

And you fail to realise that puberty blockers

Are more reversible than a child’s suicide

And those same symptoms come with the birth control

Prescribed to a 12 year old girl because she has ache.

Only 0.5% of the british population and yet

You act as if our existence is an epidemic

And we both know that’s because ignorance is easier than to admit you’re allowing

A genocide in Gaza

A housing crisis

And global warming

Like a coward, you make a mess

Then point to us as a distraction.

A child of a politician,

I wish the fucking cabbage replaced Liz Truss instead

Because whether we both like it or not

You are our prime minister too.

So fucking act like it.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Sir

It was an unsuspecting afternoon,

Coming back from a day out with a friend

But decided why not have

A quick trip to The Travelling Man to pick up a manga that I wanted.

It was actually in stock for once,

So already going better than usual

Because I'd come to believe that part of their policy was having every other edition

Apart from the one I’m looking for whenever I visit.

I walked up to the counter

Headphones around my neck

Phone in hand to pay contactless,

I was ready for this to be a quick and easy interaction.

You asked me if that was all,

I told you yes,

And then

Then, my good sir behind the counter you asked

"Would you like a bag sir".

Sir!

I do not know how you, a stranger, saw me that day

My chest unbound,

Pronoun pins not totally visible,

Smudged eye liner around my eyes,

And feminine voice and still

Still, be it a slip of the tongue,

A misreading of my pins

Or a failed attempt to upset me, mistaking me for a trans woman

But with your address of sir I felt myself become elated,

This moment being a first for me.

From Starbucks barista’s mistaking my androgynous name for a girls one,

To people on the street,

To university housemates I’m too scared to come out to,

Getting she/her’d, miss’d, lady’d, woman’d, girl’d

Is just the expectation for me.

A fact of life I cringe at

But a fact of life non the less.

And with your simple referral of “sir”

I became so flustered with euphoria I had to hurry out the shop after paying,

taking a moment standing on the street to compose myself

Because you, sir, could apparently not tell

Or at least deemed me masculine enough to be given the title

Sir.

And that, sir, I cannot thank you enough for.

[mypoetrynotebook]

I love your poems. They are beautiful. They are sad and joyful and angry, and powerful. I like them very much.

This is so sweet, thank you so much❤️

[mypoetrynotebook]

Dream About You

I dreamed about you last night.

No you weren’t flying, or my roommate or a clown,

You weren’t doing something silly, or strange,

Or just standing in the background, watching the plot of whatever my subconscious mind pieced together for me that night

No, you were talking to me.

You talked to me and said things I don’t know if you believe.

You probably don’t

But sometimes it feels like you do.

Often times.

You answered questions I never got the courage to ask and likely never will,

And I told you things I refuse to say

Like how much you hurt me that day,

Or how certain comments haven’t left my mind,

How much I care about you,

And how it was so much easier to not see you.

You’re my best friend

But the way you make me feel sometimes makes people think I hate you

And I have to correct them over and over that no I can’t hate you.

You are too well connected to me,

Even when I cut away at the threads,

Even when you pull and push me away.

It’s silly to think that someone I’ve known since I was 7

Can become a stranger at 19

And in my dream you told me not to yell at you

But I wasn’t yelling.

I was just hurt.

And so were you.

And that was the most realistic part of the dream

Because I know how bad you are hurt

But that doesn’t give you the right to hurt me in the process.

I know we’re ride or die

But I thought that meant us both continuing on this ride

Not you dragging me down so we both die

While refusing to let me help you back up

And when I woke up from my dream I didn’t cry.

I didn’t feel anything.

Because at least this meant that one version of us got closure.