November 12, 2021.
my transition seems to never end
Through pursed lips he says, "To who?"
"A stranger to all--
met with no familiarity with no expectations that follow"
Yes, so simple
I have been introduced many times
as my mother's daughter (or son)
my father's headache or his smoking gun
It's grown dull and not entirely fair
I do nothing to bring in these hell hounds
that sniff at my clothing, thinking of where I must have been
as if they'll unlock the mystery of why I'm different
Just the same, I also don't understand them
We're running on my father's time, his hourglass
on every grain of sand he relays to me this message
of his mortality and what I'm to do after the final swing of life's axe
My eyes are also entranced by the foul swoop of a pendulum clock
they dart back and forth, poisoned by paranoia
but others only see the intensity of a fallen angel with a single tear
They are always ready to claim my grief is either unjustified or repetitive
Yet they cover their mouths in scandal
when I announce the death of an old name
given to me at birth, so kindly
but it wasn't a gift I could accept after the pain and age
So I speak of running away to some castle in the distance
some beautiful location that doesn't know me
so that I may continue to transform in peace
a place where I'm not under a microscope, with labored breathing
A place where I don't hear my family's excuses
as to why they think I became the man I am
a place where my mother can rest in death,
never used as a chess piece towards their own bigotry
A place where I can come out to him, on my own time
It has been years now of me, walking around egg shells
with a stack of books on my head and fine china in my trembling hands
trying to keep up appearances as best as I can
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 241 times
Written on 2021-11-12 at 08:01
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my transition seems to never end
they grieve but i'm not dead
"I want to be a stranger", I sayThrough pursed lips he says, "To who?"
"A stranger to all--
met with no familiarity with no expectations that follow"
Yes, so simple
I have been introduced many times
as my mother's daughter (or son)
my father's headache or his smoking gun
It's grown dull and not entirely fair
I do nothing to bring in these hell hounds
that sniff at my clothing, thinking of where I must have been
as if they'll unlock the mystery of why I'm different
Just the same, I also don't understand them
We're running on my father's time, his hourglass
on every grain of sand he relays to me this message
of his mortality and what I'm to do after the final swing of life's axe
My eyes are also entranced by the foul swoop of a pendulum clock
they dart back and forth, poisoned by paranoia
but others only see the intensity of a fallen angel with a single tear
They are always ready to claim my grief is either unjustified or repetitive
Yet they cover their mouths in scandal
when I announce the death of an old name
given to me at birth, so kindly
but it wasn't a gift I could accept after the pain and age
So I speak of running away to some castle in the distance
some beautiful location that doesn't know me
so that I may continue to transform in peace
a place where I'm not under a microscope, with labored breathing
A place where I don't hear my family's excuses
as to why they think I became the man I am
a place where my mother can rest in death,
never used as a chess piece towards their own bigotry
A place where I can come out to him, on my own time
It has been years now of me, walking around egg shells
with a stack of books on my head and fine china in my trembling hands
trying to keep up appearances as best as I can
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 241 times
Written on 2021-11-12 at 08:01
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Alan J Ripley |
