The Poetry Marathon

content warning: intense feeling, some potentially unpleasant metaphor, very stream-of-consciousness

i’ve got words i’ve got words
i’ve got so many words they’re
bursting out of me it’s wildfire it’s fireworks
it’s sparking i am consumed by what’s inside of me
it’s everything it’s all i know i am
words, painted, carved from my skin
my bone my blood – i am words,
and nothing more than that – i am words
i am filled to the brim with words i am overflowing
with words all i have is words and i will
scream them out into the nothing.
at the end of the day i am only a wraith,
a ghoul, a ghost, a temporary placeholder
for what is meant to be – that’s why i’m words,
crumbling, falling down, burning me inside-out
these words cannot express, cannot explain
emotion is a mimicry and i am an excellent mimic,
a parrot, learning my own new words to
create some music, some lyrics, something
that can ground me – save me – damn me –
i use my words like a weapon and a shield,
use my words like violence like biting like pain
and i hold them like a panacea to every little cut
i’ve ever felt and somehow, something,
in all of these words
heals.

content warning: pretty sure there’s none

Much of life is a choice.
Two roads, like Robert Frost wrote;
The untrod paths, the call of the voice,
Distant yet yearning note.

There are many streets to take.
To turn left or right; to rush or to linger –
Each decision a new fate will make
Although there will be no bell ringer.

Your choices are yours, for better or worse;
I know this much to be true.
Whether life is a blessing or a curse,
That’s entirely up to you.

content warning: talks about fairy tales

fairy tale heroes fall to fairy tale morals:
the past seems to preach
of docile women and their rescuing men.
but cinderella wasn’t docile –
she chose kindness above cruelty,
and though she couldn’t drag herself
from the ashes of the fire
she was still able to wave that white flag.

and in the original story of rapunzel
after the prince falls from the tower
she escapes on her own,
and cries for him to give him salvation.
just because these stories
have standards of a different time
does not mean they were never heroes.

it was not damsels in distress,
with princes on white horses,
but strong, stubborn women
who kept to their morals.
snow white talked to the huntsman,
who was so moved by her story,
that he lied to the queen he feared and loved.

and sleeping beauty may have fallen to a curse,
one to only awaken with a kiss,
but she was the one who sought answers
for why she had always been different.
if one can take anything from fairy tales,
perhaps the better moral is not
“princesses require rescue by men” but
“we thrive when we work together”.

content warning: just comparisons to my past self.

Do you mourn me?
Child-that-was, person
of could-have should-have,
possibilities dying in the light
of summer sun.

I could go back,
and trace my own face,
hold tight to each flaw
and rounded feature.

I couldn’t go back;
I can’t be “her” again,
time caressed the memory
of who I once was.

Do you mourn me?
We are still the same:
“she” and “they”,
younger and older,
I find peace in knowing
I was never lost.

Do not mourn me;
I am still here,
standing before you.
Like earth from a river,
I was carved;
but with sculptor’s hands,
I carved myself.

content warning: discussion of transphobia and issues facing intersex individuals such as nonconsensual surgery as infants, discussion of wealth inequality and ‘eat the rich’ sentiment

about one percent of the population is trans.
the number is slightly higher in younger generations,
and slightly lower in older ones.
it is called a ‘fad’, a temporary,
if it is even seen that they exist.

about one percent of the population has red hair
but you don’t see people arguing
that they should be outlawed,
denied essential medical care,
given incorrect treatment.

about one percent of the population is intersex
and they are considered aberrations,
flaws that should not exist,
babies given surgery that isn’t considered
genital mutilation
when it should be.

about one percent of the population is 77,530,000 –
more than live in germany
less than live in france –
and you don’t see people saying
french people don’t exist
or that german people don’t deserve rights

about one percent of the population is wealthy,
and one percent of those people have so much money
they can’t spend it faster than it appears in their bank account.
somehow this is admirable,
to just exist and have money appear,
to buy everything you desire,
and to do nothing with it,
to watch people suffer.

about one percent of the population is enough
to be deserving of the same rights as everyone else,
to be considered ‘people’.
and yet, somehow,
we’re still fighting a battle
that shouldn’t have ever existed.

content warning: vague references to current events, reference to Stonewall, general ‘fuck cops and politicians’ sentiments <3

My opinions are built off of the weight
of all the pain I’ve seen in the world;
carried up and away from the fact that
life’s not fair but fuck you, it should be.
So the fact of the matter is:
my opinions are radical, and more than that –
I wanna be radical.

I wanna be radical like,
I’ve tasted sunshine and am gonna share,
radical like, I’m gonna do something different,
like human rights should be a default not a privilege.
Cuz you see all this gloom-and-doom, this despair,
the absolute fuckin’ way that they chip and they take
and power begets power and you see that
anyone who wants power is gonna trample
everyone else who is in their way.

If it’s the same pattern over and over again,
then I want to change it.
I am sick of the status quo –
I’m radical, I wanna be radical like
first brick thrown at Stonewall and
living as myself and breathing as myself
and knowing my truths.

I wanna be radical like,
I’m gonna make a difference,
radical like, I’m gonna be happy even though you think I shouldn’t be,
like the lines that divide us are smaller than the things we share,
cuz I’ve been raised on fairy tales and I know all about
power of love, power of faith, the way we’re tied together –
my rights, my happiness, the same as yours,
red string of fate and soulmates being friends and
true love existing wherever any kind of love does.

I’m an optimist.
It’s kind of a foolish proposition to take,
but this is not the end of the world –
not as long as I’m living, breathing,
able-to-do-something-ing.
And I know everything seems bad but
humanity is a bunch of obstinate, stubborn fuckers
and we riot when we’re hurting.

I wanna be radical like,
none of this matters,
radical like, we can do better,
like when you choose hate I’ll choose love.
Sometimes the best I’ve got is
a raging, radical fuck you.

content warning: none! just a nice pleasant little diddy about the stars :3

I know little about constellations
but their stories are, in some ways, also mine.
It is true that across all the world’s nations,
the stars in the sky align.

The world spins, and the constellations change;
season by season, north and south divide.
With each new season comes a new range
Of constellations each hemisphere eyes.

If we can equate constellation with connection,
then perhaps we can reach out to each other.
Sometimes all a lonely soul needs is affection;
in old poems and songs, every man’s a brother.

So to all my siblings, near and far:
I see you and I think I see the truth.
When you look to the sky and see the stars,
know I’m looking at them too.

content warning: usage of the f-slur (f*g) as a device; discussion of being lgbtq+ and discrimination; sexual harrassment and threats

i am not the right kind of queer.

my existence is a debate and discourse,

and folks like to say

i’m not real –

– ly queer –

i’m lying

i don’t face discrimination.

(my first rape threat came

when i was twelve,

as a joke,

poorly made.

they stopped being jokes

at nineteen

when i first said “i’m ace”)

i read words that said,

“pete buttigieg is just a fag”.

beige. milquetoast.

white picket fence and

respectable.

there is no stopping

the people who hate queerness.

i am not the right kind of queer.

i am two steps left.

demand i fit in boxes, say

i’m bad for overflowing.

i can’t tell you my gender

(“it feels like” different when i touch it),

but i can tell you i never fit in,

can tell you ‘girl’ settled oddly

and ‘woman’ fit like too-small clothes and a scratchy blanket,

and when i was sixteen i fell in love with a girl

and cried when she wasn’t my first kiss

(i didn’t know).

kick me out if you want,

i’m used to it.

i have to build rocks and cages,

have to hunker down with the ones like me,

have to be willing to take a bullet

whenever i try to insist

“i’m here”.

i’m in-between and outside,

not the right kind of queer,

but no such thing as being the right kind,

anyway.

just being people,

writing labels,

finding ourselves.

and trust me when i say,

you’re not the right kind either.

not to them.

I’ve been writing poems my entire life, and have always loved poetry. Emily Dickenson is one of my favorite poets. I’m very excited for the marathon.

I’m actually not too worried about getting out 24 poems in 24 hours. The biggest issue for me will be staying awake the full time.

I will be prepared with snacks. I would say coffee, but I don’t like coffee, and I drink uncaffeniated tea. So.

Maybe I can just sleep most of the 24th. We’ll see.

Uhh, I don’t know what all to put here. I’m 25, nonbinary (they/them pronouns please! Or ne/nem, if you want to use neopronouns or have something against singular they), in general queer. I’m Autistic and disabled with chronic pain and fatigue (although no diagnosed issue and I don’t know the source), on top of my mental health issues and, as much as I like it, my autism itself.

I’m a cat parent, too. Cinnamon is my pride and joy.

Man. I am not fond of talking about myself. Nice to meet you?? I’m excited for the marathon.