My Lengthy Dissertation on the Origin of the Word Rebellion,
in Verse.
(Or, Go Home And Start A Revolution, Kids!)
Disclaimer: Poet not responsible for any monetary or emotional damage caused by rebellions encouraged by this bitter poem.

rebellion
re-belle-ion

I know I promised to write you a poem, Nikki, so here it is.

Sweet Blossoms

all things come and
go until you're gone.

counting heart-red petals on
a morning breeze--
they drift toward
the sun
fill the air with their scent
they drift toward
tomorrow
fill you with spring

take it as fact
like the moon, so
beautiful, but what
can we do about that?
will you breathe
for me/for spring?

Hey beautiful! Sorry I've been away... you know how life gets.
I'm glad to be back even though I'm under strict orders not to be. My mom, since her visit to my counselor, has been discussing my sexuality with me a lot more lately. I thought this would be a good thing, but... she has issued two major decrees (both of which I plan to ignore as discreetly as possible.)
First, she's told me that I'm not to discuss my "decision" with anyone except those people who already know I'm a lesbian.

triggerfoot: a reckless poem about being reckless
in three parts
and my apologies to her, before she even reads it

i wish for your sake
that the sun was a little closer.
you shake, shiver in shadows,
stamp in the narrow mud.
move
for warmth
you're frozen through and through.
the creamy pinks of sunrise
look like they could melt the frost-
but you're still cold.
puff smoke into the crystal iar,
tight enough to shatter,
you give the day your warmth.

bundled up like an
Eskimo you walk to
school I watch your

I'm posting this for you, and for everyone who is sick of suffering ignorance. It kills me that you have to listen to idiots who are full of hatred. I hope this poem can give something to all of you, but I wish there was more I could do. You are brave. Keep fighting.

conversation
with ozzy, as
i move my sneakers in a puddle
swirling muddy water
"wasn't in any condition
to be reading a poem that day"
i laugh, like i understand
what does he mean?
maybe he was high, and i didn't notice

and i feel like we're stuck
in high school, because
people are loud all the time
while me 'n' ozzy are
sitting here talking art
"yeah i remember
that poem"
me talking art, like i have a clue, right?

I gave her a poem today
I gave her a poem, I gave her e. e. cummings
what the hell?
I gave her a poem and nothing's
Connected anymore
Nothing's joined up I'm
Believing in ghosts, she doesn't even know me
I gave her a poem today.

There's a girl
And I trip on the stairs.
Why do I curse myself
With intertwined fingers,
Clenched fists, hands on rails?
There's a girl
And my heart sits quiet.

I push forward
Push past her
Through vaulting jocks
Shrieking girls, and clowns
Juggling cigarrettes
Fire consumes all that I avoid.
I push forward, can't stand to
See her alone.

Holy shit you guys... I am exhausted.
I never have time to post, except late at night, and then my posts get buried the next day and no one reads them.
I know. Stop whining, right?

Well, I'm about to post around fifty poems.
Not really. But a lot that I've written, and not had time to post.

Let's all give Adrian a big round of applause, because he stayed up till 7 a.m. doing stuff for the site. We love you Adrian!

How could I have forgotten? I allow the laughter of my classmates to stand for the judgment of the entire world.

My chemistry teacher, making a clever social analogy, says, "Choose the right pairs of elements when making compounds. Make sure you choose one negative and one positive. Make couples- after all, you wouldn't want to put two boys together, or two girls together!" Everyone laughs. I burn and sink. No, we wouldn't want that.

Then
Looking to the west, to the sun,
I see fading gold stains across the sky.
Darkness falls, and I know
There is still time to escape.

But I turn from the window-
I must preserve my family’s honor.
My father enters, gravely,
I lay the veil over my face.

He speaks of pride, of love
For family; he speaks highly
Of tradition. I hear nothing
But the drums of war in my heart.

I wish I had more time to post. I barely know what's going on with all of you, much less have time to keep up with my own writing. So...

January is a cruel month. I feel so "closety" these days. I imagine my truth blossoming, spreading like a scarlet stain across a white sheet. People saying things I don't want to hear.

My insides are all blood and contentment. The taste of blood... a metal taste. It rises in my throat, and I almost drown in it when I try to breathe.

Here I sit beside a cheap world, which exchanges a coin for a piece of wisdom, and while I fill myself with spirits, someone is turning off the lust, sweeping up the dust, moving between the shelves, cleaning the library as the moon rises in the west. This blind girl is tired of touching the words with her numb fingers.

Girls with loud voices
And long hallway strides
Stand in the center,
Block traffic on both sides.

Sometimes they hold hands,
Sometimes they link arms.
They call out in voices
Like fire alarms-

Hands on waists
Stand knee to knee,
So much touching,
But no one touches me.

Tuesday. Spent back in school, staring sleepy-eyed at a series of of teachers and chalkboards.
Why can't I ever sleep on Monday nights?
I had just finished "Am I Blue?" at 11:00, and I had to stay up thinking for a long time. I tossed and turned and threw my pillows in the dark. Most torturous. I was thinking about conversations I'd had with Nikki and Dana and ACCGirl, and I was like, "This is my world. I should talk to more girls. To sleep or not to sleep?"