Reclaiming the F Word

My mother sent me a text today
about the explosive F Bomb in my Facebook status.
You majored in English,
you’re better than that
word.

Fuck, mom.
The word is fuck.

Fuck, a word deemed vulgar,
classless, unwelcome in society,
wrong.

Fuck and I have a lot in common.

It wasn’t so long ago
that I was demonized,
told by society that I am less
than the other words in the sentence,
unnnatural, causing trouble,
acting out.

You say fuck is lazy,
it makes me less
because it doesn’t fit
into society’s puzzle.

But fuck is a gut punch,
it’s fierce and strong
and all the things you taught me to be,
mom.

I think fuck is beautiful.
Fuck is the exasperated voice
of struggle
Fuck is a fight
against the odds
Fuck is challenging authority,
saying that society does not define me
that I am perfect the way I am
in my flawed, homosexual skin.

Restrain yourself,
don’t use such language.
Release yourself,
be bold and brazen.

Fuck the norm.
Fuck the people
who say your life is worth less
because it’s not a pretty package.
Fuck the wars
and the politicians sending us to them.
Fuck the violence and the hatred,
throw all the weight off your shoulders
to the ground.
Don’t let them resign you
to a bad taste in the mouth
that can be removed with a bar of soap.

Because you’re not just a pretty word,
you’re fucking beautiful.

Reclaiming the F Word

“Refugees Stranded As Borders Close And Nations Crack Down”

“You are not welcome here” you tell me,
kneading the thread of my fate in your cold, rough hands.
I bow my head in silent defeat,
accepting that I am not yet home.
I may never be home.

I have looked hell in the face –
its strikingly human face.
My soul-wrenching hope for survival has led me to your door
and now it will lead me away.

Do you know the subtleties of a heartbeat?
in fear
in fatigue
in hunger
in pain
in restlessness
in courage
in hope

You know that my human heart beats just like yours,
pushing blood through my veins just like yours.

I know better.

Even our humanity can’t connect us –
after all,
that’s why you find it so easy
to say goodbye.

“Refugees Stranded As Borders Close And Nations Crack Down”

“Target going gender neutral in some sections”

What does it mean to be he?
Firetrucks, race cars, tool sets –
can he have a tea party?
What if he wants a Barbie for his GI Joe to save?
What if he needs a Barbie to save his GI Joe?
What does it mean to be she?
Baby dolls, aprons, dress up clothes –
can she throw a football?
What if she wants a hammer to fix her baby’s boo-boo?

Can he be a fashionista?
Can she be a doctor?
Can they live the life they want?

What does it mean to be human?

“Target going gender neutral in some sections”

“Huge crowd gathers to watch ISIS throw gay man off building”

Preface: There are so many awful stories in the news, and to try to comprehend, to fathom what I see and hear, to humanize the murders, the tortures, the hatred, I am beginning a series where I put myself in the story and try to imagine what the person was going through. The result of that is here. This is not supposed to be what this man felt, but rather a rendition of what I would feel were I in the same situation.

It was just a kiss.
A heart-racing, eye-widening, soul-splitting kiss, but just a kiss all the same.
I should have known better.
I don’t know how they found out.
Nothing is safe.
Here I am, the consequence of one moment of weakness.
A message of hatred.
God, why?
The rope burns on my wrist and the heat scalding my skin are no match for my mind.
They are leading me to my death.
I am a good man. I give, I help, I love.
I love.
They wish to destroy me.
They will destroy me.
I think I’m on the roof now.
They’re talking all around me, but I can’t make out the words.
I am going to die for my love.
I do not want this, it is no heroic gesture – no one will stop them.
A sharp command, they grab my arm.
I am on the edge.
They share their message.
I’m overcome with the urge to jump right there, to shatter their vision of how this should go, but the self-preservation wins out, I hold onto life for just a bit more.
I know it is coming before I feel it.
My body is flailing through the air.
I am reminded of the steep drop of my favorite roller coaster.
His face flashes before my eyes,
disappearing in flames upon impact.
No one will ever know my fear, my pain, my promise.
No one will ever know me.

“Huge crowd gathers to watch ISIS throw gay man off building”

[The World’s Roots] 011.

I am a plotted plant today.
A sunflower, I think.
I am looking at a sky that is the color blue
of faded years.
The sun is bright white, and it hurts to stare at.
But I’m a plotted plant, so I stare anyway.
The sun beams infiltrate my eyes.
They race through my veins.
I’ve never felt a pain this good.
I spread out my roots in the soil,
I arch my back and welcome the view.
Today, I’m a plotted plant.
But tomorrow —
tomorrow I think I’ll be the sun.

[The World’s Roots] 011.

Selling love poems

So I’m trying to earn a little extra money, and I found this site, Fiverr, where you can do things and sell them for $5.

So, I’m writing personalized love poems for people to give as gifts. It should be interesting to see how many people buy – I’ve already had one sale, and it was a lot of fun!

If you’re looking for a love poem to send to a loved one, go and check it out. (:

https://www.fiverr.com/kapperson/write-a-love-poem-for-you?gig_id=10714392&use_personalized_metadata=true&utm_campaign=base_gig_create_share&utm_content=&utm_medium=shared&utm_source=facebook&utm_term=&view=gig

Selling love poems