Poems Destined for the Fire

[purelyspite]

bro my transmasc ass will be so pumped about a new sports bra that makes my boobs smaller and then immediately start planning a Disney princess Halloween costume

[trashfirepoet]

How to be angry

I do not know how to be angry.

How do I help the naïve firefighter in me,

The one fighting to contain the bushfire

That is my rage and retribution in the hearth.

I hold my tongue, I grit my teeth,

I purse my lips and crack my jaw,

Hoping to not set the fire free,

The one I cannot control.

My childhood was a house fire, causing schisms,

Cracks in the foundations, miles wide and impassable.

How do you learn to calm the furnace

And fight the flames if nobody ever did.

Now I meditate, I breath, I shake and stretch,

All to prevent the sparks from catching

My mind is like a field of peat, always on fire,

Always smouldering beneath the surface.

If I cannot quell the fire and fight the heat,

How can I keep it from consuming me?

How do I prevent it shooting from my mouth,

Consuming the ones around me?

I don't know how to be angry without burning myself alive.

[trashfirepoet]

[trashfirepoet]

[trashfirepoet]

[trashfirepoet]

You're mine, if you want.

I would travel the seven seas,

Fighting sirens, hydras and gods.

I would shoot for the stars

And pull down the moon and sun.

If that's okay with you.

I would drench my hands in blood,

Hold my own with bloody knuckles.

Grip my sword with blistered hands,

And battle the toughest foes.

If you're fine with that.

Twenty years or more I'd wait,

Unravelling shrouds again and again.

My love is not so fragile that

Time could ever weather it.

But, only if that works for you.

[trashfirepoet]

Family

Who decides a family?

Blood can hurt, burn, scar

Leave a gaping wound

Empty, dark and lonely.

Who decides a family?

A house filled with love, joy

Can be invaded, divided by

A suit, a notebook, and laws.

Who decides a family,

When the government sneers,

A rainbow home cannot be safe

They cry, jealous of the warmth.

[feigningroyalty]

We must become the queer elders that we had taken from us. We are here because of pride and proud we will remain.

[trashfirepoet]

Bo Burnham

When you ask how am I doing?

I say Bo Burnham is on repeat

Rather than dealing, I'm listening

To someone else's breakdown.

[trashfirepoet]

Sceptic, Poet, Joker

In the words of Gihan Hyde,

Every new process needs three:

A sceptic, a poet, a joker.

The sceptic pokes and prods,

Picks apart the seams and

Questions the insides.

Waxing lyrical, the poet believes,

Sees the beauty and the hope

And offers a helping hand.

Then comes the laughter, the jest,

The joker. Taking nothing serious,

Ideas rolling off like oil drops.

A careful balance, too much ruins

The project, tears it down at the start.

Keeps it on the ground.

Not enough and quality disappears,

Any old idea will do, too many,

The gold is lost to the sea.

[trashfirepoet]

Hope Version Two

Hope can be a bonfire.

Fed by dreams and stardust,

Driving away the night,

Warming to your bones.

Hope can be a torch.

Cold, heavy but unfaltering,

Charged by acid and metal,

Gripped by white knuckles.

Hope can be a candle.

Flickering, gasping, afraid,

Only surviving the rainstorm

When cupped by icy hands.

Hope can be a spark.

When the dark has crept in,

Even when all is lost,

Hope can still be there.

Hope is yours to tend to,

Whether a spark, torch or fire.

A loyal, steadfast saviour,

Feed it when you can.

[trashfirepoet]

Hope Version One

When you were younger, brighter, new,

With pockets full of stardust,

With knapsack stuffed with dreams,

You were given a precious thing,

A little spark named Hope.

That spark soon shared your days,

Fed off you, your studies, your plans.

It grew and grew until it roared

A bonfire of stardust, love and fight,

Ready to face the world.

You took it with you, in a glass lantern,

Tending, preening, caring, holding.

When those 20-something nights hit

And life all felt so lonely and rushed,

It kept you warm.

Life got harder, and so did you.

Hope was there, oh there she was,

Smaller now but still warm.

Storms came, the ground moved,

The glass in the lantern broke.

Like a candle in a rainstorm,

Hope flickered and flashed,

The world no longer felt safe,

It was a fight to keep her here,

But you held tight.

So, what happened to Hope?

That's all up to you now.

Will you feed her, hold her?

Even when the wolves are at your door,

Will you keep them at bay?

[trashfirepoet]

In my face

I used to see my mother's face

Looking back from the mirror's glass.

Kind eyes masking a selfish cruelty,

My cheeks curved like those I used

To reach for, for comfort, for safety.

It's softness used to confuse me,

A softness unknown to me.

I used to see my mother's face

Until I started becoming me.

When I stepped out of the binary,

Let my face hair grow, my cheeks pinch

My hair short and my happiness plain.

Chest bound and butch styling.

For a while, I only saw myself.

I couldn't prepare for the side effect

Where I walk past the looking glass

Heart racing, jumping out of my skin.

On angry days, frustrated days

Overstimulated, snappy, raging,

That I would see another there,

That I would see my father's face.

[trashfirepoet]

The city is dead

The city is dead they moan,

As they walk past whole buildings,

Spaces filled with colour, music,

With the sun shining down.

What has this country come to?

They cry, walking past new shops,

New communities, laughter, joy,

Free to roam, free to choose.

Whats the point anymore?

They shout, shaking fists at clouds,

Then returning to houses filled with

Food, warmth, health and laughter.

This city is dead!

Our city is dead they whisper,

Surrounded by rumble and ruin,

Safe spaces obliterated,

With bombs raining down.

What has our country come to? 

They cry, heaving lives on their backs,

Holding their children tight,

Praying for freedom, praying for choice.

What's the point anymore?

A mother cries, begging for more time,

Spaces in sizes 4 to 6 months,

245 calories a day, 5 oreos.

This city is dead.

hadhih almadinat mayita

[trashfirepoet]

Rekindled friendships

Chairs scrape, screaching, creak,

Holding the weight of a rift

Caused by pain, by life, by schisms,

Joints held in suspense.

Delicate, fragile strings of hope,

Creeping across the table,

Spun from love that never left,

Breath held, scared to move.

*breath in, breath out*

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,

I missed you, I missed you,

We weren't our best selves,

Can we please just start again?

The armour falls, clattering, loud

To the floor, weapons sheathed.

Strings turn to rope and slates,

Bridging the gap that screams.

It's delicate, it's fragile, it's human

Reinforced by love that never left.

Everything is temporary but for now,

It's enough for us to break bread.

[trashfirepoet]

Self delete

I'm older than I'm knew I'd be.

At 14, I knew I would self delete

Whether it was pills, poison, drowning,

A reckless step into oncoming traffic.

Anything to escape the weight of living

When being true meant being alone.

I'm older than I'd ever dreamed.

At 21, I dreamed I would be gone.

While writing vows and picking dresses,

Demons of the past nipped at my heels,

Sending passive aggressive threats.

Messages that splintered on impact,

The barbs poisonous and burning.

Till death do us part kept me here.

I'm older now than I was before.

At 33, I no longer know it or dream it.

My home has no slamming doors,

No anger, no isolation, no fear.

My battle scars remain, the barbs gone,

My swords and armour stashed away.

14 year me had no way of knowing

How beautiful this life would be.

I'm older now than I ever hoped,

And younger than I'll ever be.

[trashfirepoet]

Labour

I do not dream of labour

But art becomes my labour.

Comitting my soul to paper

Feels heavy, needs a clock in.

I do not dream of labour

But I do dream of art.

I do not dream of labour

But damn, I dream of food.

Warm, good, filling and shared,

Enough for all, none go hungry.

I do not dream of labour

But I do dream of food, for all.

I do not dream of labour

But I labour for freedom.

I write, speak, protest and fight

Railing against the roilling dark.

I do not dream of labour

But I do dream of freedom.

I do not dream of labour

So why does peace feel like work?

A life of labour, back-breaking trauma

Should create a life of softness.

I do not dream of labour,

But I do dream of peace.