Poetry Is Just The Evidence Of Life

Niles, 24, trans guy. Enjoy the writings. Who knows! Maybe there’s news! It’s usually poetry here, folks.

[the-rum-diary]

The Words I Can’t Say

It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way about anyone.

I can’t begin to say what I feel.

I adore you, I do.

But I can’t risk to ruin what we have just because of the way I feel.

You mean so much to me, and I adore you dearly.

I can’t stop thinking about you in so many ways that go beyond the physical.

I can’t help but think about what it would be like if things were different.

I know you’ll most likely read this, and that’s fine.

I just hope it won’t change anything between us.

I just needed you to know that I do love and care for you in more ways than one.

I think about you when I’m listening to Leonard Cohen or reading something by Anthony Bourdain.

I think about you when I see a bouquet of pink and white flowers.

I see the stars on the nights where a full moon is to be, and I think about you.

I see the beauty in the world, and I see you.

I see pastries sitting next to a cup of coffee with a cigarette on the side, and it reminds me of you.

I can’t help but find myself thinking of you.

These are the words I can’t say to you, my dove.

For better or worse, and for eternity and chronically.

[the-rum-diary]

I Talked to God Last Night

I talked to God last night.

Something I never thought I’d ever do again in the past fifteen years.

Told him I was lost and needed help.

Had a cigarette in my mouth and asked him not mind it.

I explained that I was alone again, that I was in need of help, and in need of some guidance.

I don’t think he heard me.

I don’t think he cared.

I don’t even know why I went to him.

I think I was just needing someone to talk to that would at least be of divinity.

Maybe it’s something else. I don’t know.

All I know is that I’m not feeling any better.

I don’t know where I’m going, or who I am, or how I even begin to be where I need to be.

All I know is where I’ve been.

But, after I finished my talk to God, I looked at the moon. It looked like a smile.

I think he heard me but he laughed at me in the process.

I don’t think God listens. He just loves to make a mockery of human existence and pain.

I don’t think I’ll talk to him again.

[the-rum-diary]

Art is Dead and Technology Has Killed It

After reading about the literacy crisis going on in America these days, a land that once praised writers like Mark Twain, Edgar Allan Poe, Hunter S. Thompson, and many others but those are just to name a few, the entirety of the state of written media, as we know it now, is dead. And technology has killed it. Do I mean the invention of the computer taking over the place of the typewriter? No. I mean the invention of artificial “intelligence.” First off, it’s not intelligent if it’s stealing ideas from uncredited artists and writers, as we’ve seen on Twitter, now X, where many artists have complained about artificial intelligence throwing in their own art styles with various others in a mashup. Certain engines, such as X’s Grok, or even Google’s Gemini, both of which you can’t disable, are barely accurate. Not even engines such as ChatGPT isn’t reliable, and only regurgitates what it was told. And that doesn’t include the thousands of other artificial intelligence apps or websites that are accessible to children and teens, a direct hit to the literary crisis. As for colleges, yes, there’s ways to have artificial intelligence being prevented in papers, but even then, those who pass the artificial intelligence check, fail due to the basics of things; such as the em dash or the Oxford comma. Both of which have been around since their inventions. Without them, Albert Camus wouldn’t have written “The Stranger", or Stephen King writing “Pet Cemetery.” Many others wouldn’t have written their greatest works, and the literary movement of the sixties, such as beat poetry with Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, wouldn’t have even begun. The fact that I, an amateur writer, has to write this piece of news, and my opinion on the matter after only having written nothing but short stories and poetry, truly shows how upsetting and downright depressing this “movement” or rather this boom in artificial intelligence is incredibly harmful to, not just children, teens, or college students, but to the writing industry as a whole. How much longer before this goes from schools to the writing industries? To journalism? To book writing? The digital art world is slowly dying, as we’ve seen with various book designs not being from traditional, or even actual digital art, but artificial intelligence art. To schools even because it’s making them lose money every single day, to the point that it's costing them trillions. Artificial intelligence has already started killing political campaign advertisements. Artificial intelligence isn’t a movement, it’s killing art and artists and it’s killing minds. Art is now dying, has been for years after Andy Warhol and many just like him died, and with this big boom in artificial intelligence it’s only speeding up the process. How much longer is going to take before people realize just how deadly this movement truly is? Not just to the media, or to artists who are just starting out and wanting to branch out to larger audiences to even being in museums, but to the mind as well. Works cited: https://www.cnn.com/2025/09/22/tech/america-literacy-ai-schools, https://thehill.com/opinion/education/5484190-literacy-crisis-national-literacy-month/

[the-rum-diary]

Dear Dad (Updated)

Dear dad, it's been almost three months since you’ve passed. Over three since my mother's passing. Things haven’t been great, but that’s nothing new. Nothing feels new either. I’ve been moved around atleast three, hell, maybe even four  times now. Each one more exhausting than the last. Your son, my uncle, reminds me of you in the worst ways possible. He has your temper, you know. I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got, but I don’t have half as much, or even that, as I used to. I’m tired, dad. I’m tired, anxious, and exhausted. I don’t know what to do anymore. If you’re looking for an update on myself, which I doubt you are, here it is; I’m falling back into old vices again. I know you hated it when I drank and smoked, but it’s too familiar to me to give up. Sex is new to me, but it’s already becoming an obsession, almost a borderline addiction. But, even with that, I wanted to say a few things aside from all this, but I’ll start here. I can’t say I forgive you for what you did to me, because I don't. I can’t. Dad, do you forgive me? Can you even forgive me? For being the way I was as a teenager? Those careless and callous arguments? My outbursts? Could you forgive me for once, rather than it being the other way round? I wasn’t perfect, you and I both know that, but I tried. I hope you knew that, at least. I was just tired of being the bleeding heart of the family and getting nothing in return. Tired of giving up opportunities left and right for your sake and mother's. But, above all, I was tired and young, and stupid. I don’t know what else to say, dad. I guess that I miss you. I can’t say that I forgive you. We never had much of a relationship, not even in your last weeks. I suppose this is it. Goodbye, dad. I hope you're not mad at me anymore. Sincerely,                             -N.

[the-rum-diary]

Murdered for a Reason(?)

Do you think that the last thing Jesus smelled was the same wood he used to work on projects with?

That every time Joeseph nailed two pieces of wood together, he’d be thinking about what the Roman’s would do to his son?

That Mary would get flashbacks to swaddling her baby while wrapping him up in his burial shroud?

His death was to be for a good reason, and yet all it brought was pain.

[the-rum-diary]

You are my artist because in my heart I have wrote stories of your art of this world of this endless miserable world. But in this colorless wrold my only escape was the stroke of light pained on a sarrow canvas, created by my simple words of greed and glee. I just need to allow l the room to let myself love unapologetically, and without fearing imperfections or flaws. But, I know we could never paint our future differently. Nor I to rewrite it. But, between seas and galaxies, I was lucky. Lucky to have experienced such the gift and beauty of love. But my heart aches. I love you continuously, intensely. It was unbearable, driven us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time. I guess, what the poets say is true. Heartbreak and death await us all. You and I awaited the same faith, my love.

[the-rum-diary]

Love’s Too Artificial

Love doesns’t feel real anymore. Not in an, “it’s not obtainable” way, but in a, “people have resorted to hedonism” way. Not that that isn’t a good thing for most people, but for me, I need a connection. Not waking up the next morning alone, and trying to piece together the night before. Not at some bar where I can barely hear the person next to me. I’m not asking for some prince on a horse to sweep me off my feet.

I’m not asking for a relationship with a yes man. I’m only asking for a deeper cnnection.

I don’t care about your favorite colors. I don’t care about the small talk. I don’t care about your ego.

I wanna know if deep down you do indeed believe that you are indeed a good person. I wanna know what your dreams are. I wanna know about your opinions on the universe, time, and love. I wanna know what you love to do when there’s no one but you around. I wanna know more about you.

You as a person. Your childhood. Your teenage years. You.

Were things different then than they are now? Are you where you want to be? Are you where you thought you’d be? Or is everything so different that you’re still adjusting?

Is this the life you envisioned? Is this everything you expected? Is this it?

[the-rum-diary]

What's The Point Anymore?

I'm not really seeing any point in being on this planet anymore. I never believed in God, and I sincerely hope there isn't anything else on the other side. I can't handle being in an eternal heaven where nothing can go wrong, and everyone is happy. How can someone who was surviving in misery experience happiness? Others have it worse than I do, so why do I still feel like I have to hold back all of my emotions, thoughts, and feelings, until I either explode or just feel like I'm close to offing myself? What's the point in anything anymore? I don't feel like I'm serving any purpose by being alive. My parents wouldn't miss me. My friends, well maybe. Everyone will move on, and I'll be someplace else. Maybe a place where nothing happens, and nothing has to happen. Not Heaven, of course, but maybe the void. Who knows? I'm so damn tired. I hate being trans in a place that's pushing towards genocide, and I'm terrified that I won't be able to afford my name change before I'm dead. Or do everything that I wanted. I don't have a plan, and I'm not actively trying anything. So, for the time being, I guess I'm stuck on this rock. I just hope that once I wake up from this nightmare, everything will be over, and nothing had happened that wasn't supposed to. But, that's a lot of wishful dreaming. And I'm afraid it won't happen that way. Who knows, maybe God is dead and we have killed him. Maybe, after all of this time, Fredric Nietzsche was right. Maybe life is the biggest hoax ever, and we all just have to make the most out of the nightmare that is reality. Maybe there's no point in anything, and we are all just trying to make something out of ourselves for our sanity's sake. In that case, I have no reason anymore. I hope whatever happens next isn't as bad as it is now.

[the-rum-diary]

Here’s To The State of Mississippi

To the state of Mississippi, are you aware as to how many suicides this bill is going to cause?

Hell, are you aware as to how much blood is going to be on your hands from this?

This isn’t just about “trans kids mutilating themselves,” this is about how it’s legal murder.

You’re no better than any serial killer before you. Matter of fact, you’re able to do the same shit that they did, but worth a legal go ahead.

I’m not disappointed, as I too live in the south. But, you’re the reason the south gets stereotyped so damn bad and why people want leave not only you but, Texas, Florida, Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, and many more. You’re the fear of what’s to come next.

You’re a goddamned disappointment to the Untied States. Your hateful propaganda and then some, might just spark a war within states. And when it does, I hope your state is first.

God and or whoever help those who either aren’t going to be okay, never recover from this, or who can’t help but live within your confines of your state. I hope to whoever that they believe in, that they’ll be okay.

And god help you for the embarrassment you are and have always been.

I said what I said.

[the-rum-diary]

Mourning the Son I Never Had

I know I can’t be a dad.

I know I could never give my son a life without anxiety.

I know I could never give my son a life that every kid deserves.

A life without having to worry about if he’ll make it home okay.

A life without having to worry about the next Armageddon.

A life that is filled with a loving world.

I knew I wanted a son when I was young.

I knew I wanted a son to throw a ball around with.

I knew I wanted a son to teach about the ins and outs of a car.

I knew I wanted a son to teach life lessons to.

I knew I wanted a son to give the love that I wasn’t give to.

I guess it just wasn’t in the cards for me.

But Heaven knows that’s all I wanted.

I mourn the son I know I’ll never be able to have.

I mourn the son I know I won’t be able to hold.

I mourn the son I wanted.

I mourn the son I deserved.

I mourn the son I never had.

I mourn the son who will never know love.

[the-rum-diary]

Dirty

I haven’t felt clean in forever

It’s not that I don’t care to.

It’s not that I don’t take care of myself.

It’s the fact that no matter what I do

I can’t feel clean.

I have scars that make me feel disgusting.

I scrub myself bare just to ease the feeling.

It never works, but it makes a good distraction.

At least, sometimes.

I’m trying to stop feeling so dirty.

Nothing’s working.

I’m scared that I’ll always feel dirty.

I know it’s irrational, but I can help it.

I haven’t felt clean in years.

Maybe it’s permanent.

Maybe I’ll always be dirty.

[the-rum-diary]

Addiction

I’ve had a fair amount of time with you.

We’ve had a lot of fun. At least, in your eyes.

I gave you a lot of my time.

I let you have your way with me.

To do as you pleased, whenever you wanted me. 

I found you at a really young age.

You took me in with your warmth, and never bothered to leave.

I didn’t want you to.

Not then. At least. 

Then, it got worse. 

You made me have a short fuse.

You made me feel as though I couldn’t get through the day without you.

You made me lose myself in the worst ways possible.

You gave up on me when all I could do was depend on you.

And only you.

I pushed away friends, family, and my own mental health for you.

I gave you myself, and it still wasn’t enough.

You were cruel.

You were once warm, and then you grew cold on me.

You treated me like a joke.

A sick, worn out, overdone, and overused joke. I was your punchline. 

I got on my knees for you, and all you did was wrap your hands around my throat, pin me to the ground, and laugh at me.

I knew then that I had to quit you. Before you’d kill me. 

I’m still stuck to you, thanks to the curveballs that life threw at me. 

But, now you’re less worse than before.

I only deal with you now.

I no longer have to depend on you. 

I thought that you were the only thing in life that would keep me going. 

Now I’m learning that you were something to kill me.

[the-rum-diary]

You Go Down Like Holy Mary

It was late one night. 

I had a hell of a day and it was filled with trauma. 

I must’ve passed by five churches at least. 

The cathedral scared me the most. 

I remembered the horror I felt when my grandfather dragged me there. 

I was a child, but the preachings of hell, the fact that certain people were free from sin. 

It all flooded.

My lover must have noticed. 

As she took my hand and lead me to the bedroom. 

“Exposure therapy” is what she claimed.

As she came back with nothing but her father’s rosary on her neck. 

She came over to me. 

I touched her skin softly. 

Slowly trading places with her on the bed and me watching, slowly joining. 

Things started to become hot and heavy.

We were close to cumming, so I grabbed the rosary, choking her in the process, and softly whispered, “you go down like Holy Mary.”

We both came shortly after. 

Who knew something so sacrilegious could feel so good?

[the-rum-diary]

I Promised Her A Garden

It was a bright spring afternoon. 

I promised myself that once the time was right, I’d make my darling a garden. 

A garden filled with many flowers and maybe trees. 

I went to the local flower nursery and picked out every flower and tree that reminded me of her. 

There were so many options, and I just had to have them all. 

I loaded them all into my trunk and took them home. 

To my best of luck, my love was still asleep. 

I got straight to work, plotting every flower, tree, and herb correctly, and to her liking. 

I was proud of my work and she came out to see what I was doing. 

“Dear?”

“Yes?”

“What is all of this? Don’t get me wrong, I adore it all, but why?”

“Remember in the winter when I made a promise that I’d make you a garden, similar to the Garden of Eden?”

“I do.”

“This, my love, is your Garden of Eden.”

“It’s all mine?”

“Every tree, flower, and herb is yours, my love.”

“I love it. How did you-?”

“The flower nursery was in bloom.”

“I love it, but not as much as I love you.”

“I’m glad you adore it.”

She kissed me and then we wandered around the garden, naming every plant. 

I named the daffodils after her, as they are my favorite flower.

She named the Virginia Bluebells after me for they were hers. 

Overhead, a dove and a bluebird flew.

We agreed that our love was meant to be.

[the-rum-diary]

Spring Has Come

My heart wasn’t open before. 

Sure, I loved things and my friends. 

I was okay by myself too. 

One day, everything changed.

She came into my cold world.

She awoke something in me.

Flowers bloomed and birds sang for the first time.

Spring has come into my Autumn mist world.

Colors are brighter than ever.

Life is a lot more vibrant.

I still don’t know how to love correctly.

I know I’ll make mistakes.

But as long as I have faith in my heart and show my love,

Spring will forever be here.

[the-rum-diary]

Lover, Lover, Lover

I finally found my lover 

She’s patient, caring, and kind.

She doesn’t care that I’m traumatized by life and love. 

She hates those who inflicted it on me.  She's a great lady and a wonderful dancer.

Her heart is big and made of gold. 

I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve her.

For she is too good for this world.

I adore her so much.

I adore her so much, it hurts.

The day that we got together, I wondered if it was true, that you could love someone more than life.

Now I know that it’s more than that. And for once, I’m not scared to be in love.

She made everything so beautiful.

Life is finally worth living. I love her. I love her. I love my lover.

[the-rum-diary]

The Boxer

I met a boxer last night. 

I watched him conquer the ring. 

I admired his dedication to honor. 

I also admired his southpaw. His right hook wasn’t too bad either. 

After the fight was over, he came over and talked to me. 

“So, what did you think?”

“You’re a great fighter.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Mind if I walk you home?”

“Not at all…”

“Tony. Short for Antonio.”

“Thank you, Tony.”

“Of course.”

We talked about everything. 

Favorite movies, shows, and what inspired us to do the things we do.

“So, what got you into boxing?”

“Take a guess.”

“I’d say that you watched the Rocky movies at a young age, and being from Philadelphia, it left a lasting impression on you, and you want to be just like the Italian Stallion.”

“You’d be correct. Now, what about you?”

“I wrote a short story when I was nine, didn’t pick up poetry until a few years later, and now it’s a passion.”

“I like that. It goes to show that things happen for a reason.”

“Thank you. You’re not too bad for a boxer.”

“You’re not bad of a poet either.”

“You’ve read my work?!”

“I have! I love the way you write people.”

“Well…would you like to be a muse of mine?”

“I’d love to.”

I smiled, and we found a spot to sit and look at the stars. 

“I always loved the stars.”

“Really?”

“I like to think that they’re the old gods watching over us. What about you?”

“I like to think that they’re writers of times past watching over us.”

“That’s really cute, actually.”

“Thank you.”

Everything went back to silence again.

Tony pulled me closer to him. I put my head on his shoulder.

Tony then moved in front of me.

“Can I kiss you? You don’t have to kiss back if you, y’know…”

“Please.”

His kiss wasn’t rough, like I imagined.

It was soft, sweet, and gentle.

After Tony pulled away, I still had my arms around him. 

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, keep them there. I like this.”

“Me too.”

I think I met my equal and I think he’s met his.