threads make cloth, fragments make posts

I’ve been trying to write poetry lately but it keeps coming out as short bursts of prose. Here’s a smattering of the latest.

Oh my child, what have you done? Your solid ground has proven porous. At least on days like today. Visceral memories of genders passed invade quiet moment. It has been years – how is it still so real?
On days like today when binding fails my shoulders slump. A proud walk is a flattened one.
As my mind re-admits femininity into the thought process my heart resists. It’s been a long road, it sighs. Are we losing ground?
Masculinity and femininity don’t exist in fixed quantities, my mind replies. Don’t forget that you would be nothing without where you’ve been.

I always have too much to say for poetry
Say more with less
concepts, ideas, fragments

Fragments of memory crash into my skull
Something as mundane as what a ponytail used to feel like
Am I not man enough?
Memories of femininity blow at the structure I build for myself
but maybe
it’s
just
scaffolding

Maybe it will fall away to reveal the careful blend of masculine and feminine energy that governs the man who holds this pen

Maybe this too shall pass
(Maybe it won’t)

I always have too much to say for poetry
but I said it anyway

The crisp autumn air whips at the trees outside my window. A familiar feeling. I lay pensively staring at the cracked cream walls of my apartment. What have they seen? What do they know?
What do I know?
I pause.
My eyes grow heavy with sleep and request I cease writing for the evening. My brain insists on turning over the question at hand; what do I know?
This time is different.
This time I do not feel alone. I am afraid but I am strong.
My deepest fear goes back onto the shelf for the evening. I know that today I am happy to be live.
I know that I am right.

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