Pulse, or the Ways Orlando Has Rewritten My Spirit.
Pulse is a name I will never forget.
Ricocheting bullets that could have ripped through my transgender flesh.
Of course, you blame it on the Muslims.
Sorry, it wasn't them. It was one asshole, product of his time, who wanted us dead.
Even though it's been forty-seven years since Stonewall.
Pulse is a name I will never forget.
Really, I thought I was safe because it's been forty-seven years.
Obviously I was wrong. No one is safe.
Such quiet lovely passion in my heart, and the natural complexity of humanity:
Enough to warrant a death sentence.
Pulse is a name I will never forget. It will
Riot in my heart, reach past my tender years to the core of me.
Oscillate between fear and terror.
Siblings, queer brothers and sisters and nonbinary loved ones,
Each of your names sings in my blood.
Pulse is a name I will never forget.
Remember it, scrawl it into your soul like Stonewall.
Obey the call of bravery and pride that echoes under your skin.
Such hatred will not change the fact of who I am.
Everyday I will exist. No one can stop us now.
Please listen. He cannot
Rob me of who I am. I am genderqueer.
Omit nothing - I am pansexual.
Scribble this down, I will not be denied.
Eliminate your ignorance, excise your
Prejudice, because that is what made him.
Really, all we want is to be accepted. This
Odyssey
Should be over by now.
Each of us are human. Stop killing us. Accept us as your equals.
Pulse is a name I will never forget.
Where Poets Come From
day dissolves into the dark,
making shadows framed in light.
I hang the image in my thoughts
for the times my head will host
my heart, and I will feel and understand
the meanings throughout the surface
of dusk as it tells me secrets painted
to lift up the broken. I will revel
in the joy of fading and sink deep
into a cocoon of madness,
emerging with poet-wings to carry
all the people to a paradise
they will never accept.
but I will travel still,
within the flock of hearts made free
from bleeding beyond the wound.
and words will be our home in
a place where the lost never grow old.
My memories with
You are a vivid neon-
Never forgotten.
But when you left me,
All alone, drowning in tears,
They began to fade.
Vibrants bled into
Watercolors and pastels.
Dull, yet remembered.
Canvases tore in
My natural disasters-
Known as emotions.
Storms raged inside while
My body struggled to stay
Intact. It did so.
The repairs began.
And thus, years of hard work and
Pained torture ensued.
Structures were built- ties
Were cut. Production never
ceased. It got better.
New love came along.
Returning my colors to
Me- Not like before.
They weren't neons
Of youth and innocence. They
Were the colors of
Experience. I
Was a juxtaposition
At its finest. But
Now I am all things
Similes and metaphors.
Beauty through and through.
Frail
3. Paper airplane
The wind only carries
those who wish to fly
and she's planted her feet
so far into the ground
that roots have spread
and leaves have browned
when the weather turned crisp,
her arms burning from
the cold but the breeze
can make her feel again
wiping her tears with its caress
she tilts her head and
watches her cardboard heart
glide on the current that
just comforted her and she remembers saying that
she was too afraid to soar
because she was just too flimsy,
her wings too poor yet
she stands eagle-spread
like the airplane in her head,
but then the rain comes
and we all know what
happens to paper when
it's thrown into the water.
Learning From Smiths
flowing molten core
the lava of life
stirs
and the magma falls
down shaft hewn from the stone
into multiple vats
of triple iron layered cauldrons
the molds as well
were made resilient
enough for the mountain fire
which burned as the sun's heart
the aged smiths of all known yore
skillfully filled each one
numerous times
the younger ones assisted
for one day
they too would be old
it could be a process
both this physical and
this emotional cooling
yet nothing earned
nothing learned
and the most integral part
was the unity in knowing
hardy Smithmetal built everyone's homes
Friday Feature: @PoeticJustice87
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Sarah Herr.
Originally from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, she has lived all over the “Keystone” state: from Reading to Philadelphia and Wilkes Barre, to her current home in Somerset.
Right now, she’s without a car, “living in the sticks” and putting in hours at a run-down gas station which, she admits, she does not enjoy.
P: Describe your relationship with writing and how it has evolved.
SH: I began writing when I was a little girl. I didn't really know how to write but had a notebook full of crazy squiggle marks across the page that I thought were words.
Writing evolved for me when I was getting off heroin. It took me outside of myself and let me feel and become whatever and whoever I wanted to be. I was able to let out feelings and emotions that I couldn't explain or tell anyone else about. Writing became my new high: totally therapeutic to my soul.
P: What value does reading bring to your personal and professional life?
SH: Reading helps me think outside the box. It makes me see the unseen.
P: Briefly describe your current literary ventures. What can we expect to see in future posts?
SH: I write a lot of nonfiction and rhyming poetry. I have been trying to write some fiction stories and am going to try to write some non-rhyming poetry.
P: As a fairly new writer, what does Prose. mean to you?
SH: It is absolutely amazing. Pure brilliance. I love reading other people's writing. To be able to see people's raw talent in the making is definitely cool. I also enjoy receiving feedback on my own stuff.
P: Where else can we find you and your work?
SH: When I was in grade school I won a contest and one of my poems was put into a book but, other than that, most of my writing has been in my personal journals. I did experiment with poetry.com but found that it was lame. If I’m not mistaken, I was actually on poetry.com when an ad popped up about Prose. It struck my curiosity and I decided to check it out.
I'm glad I did.
Be sure to follow Sarah and her literary journey here @PoeticJustice87.
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This #FridayFeature blog series is designed to help you get to know your fellow community members better. Would you like to nominate someone for interview? Have a question you’re dying to ask of someone on the platform? Send us a private message here or visit our contact page to get in touch: theprose.com/p/contact.
drunk on the county lights
i tilt my head back
and watch as the sky spins.
i hear metal groaning
and see
blue and
tinted white
lights flashing;
i imagine i'm going
faster than these rusted
seats could take me.
and i think to myself
through the children
screaming,
the drunkards
heaving,
and insignificance
grumbling about
the chill of rain,
if this is a glimpse
of the rest of my life
i just might
stick around
for another night.