By. Lauren

When will you stop my brain?
I am ready to sleep now.
I took you hours ago.
Yet you won't tuck me in.
When will you numb me
So I feel no more pain
When will you make me stop writing these poems.
Advil P.M when will you make me normal?
When will you let me live?

By. Lauren

I'm gonna start off by telling you just because you know me doesn't mean you truly know who I am.
You may know my real name but that doesn't tell you what my past consisted of.
My past tells you a story in which you can't understand.
My past consist of names that died before my reality did.
My body has always been this place in which I am afraid to go back to.
It's a place where I just want to cut off what does not belong to me.
Because my body doesn't belong to me.
My mind tells me one thing but how do I display that my body disagrees.
For I am trans my body tells me I'm a girl but my mind tells me I'm a boy and I'm stuck in this false reality in which I cannot escape.
In the course of seconds people hear my real name but they don't know who I truly am because my birth name is dead.
All I ask is to live in the body in which my mind belongs.
Except it's always my body saying that I don't belong.
The people on the streets don't understand because
yes, I am a girl but
no, I am not.
For I am trans.
"I am a boy," one day I hope to yell with no tremble in my voice due to fear.
Because I am a boy.
And a boy I will be.

By. Lauren

My ears have engulfed more poetry than they've heard music.
They hear the beat in the words not the rhythm in the beat.
The words you write play a melody in my head before they are even read.
My eyes see poetry as a world waiting to be explored.
My eyes see words and read the beat.
Without poetry my mind is set ablaze.
My thoughts engulf me to the point I no longer feel without poetry.
Poetry keeps me sane.
Because poetry is a beat needing to be played.

By. Lauren

I long for the feeling of touch on the palms of my hands.
The tingling sensation of her holding my hand not afraid of what will come.
Not afraid of what will be thrown wether it
Stick, stone, or word.
I long for the opportunity to love her even in church on Sunday afternoon, despite my lack of religion due to my fear.
I long for the warmth on the other side of the bed that she occupies with a smile on her face.
I long to know what it's truly like to not be afraid to walk down the street holding my girlfriends hand.
When normal people see a gay pride event they are disturbed covering their children's eyes.
When they see us they do not understand.
Throughout my life I have had to fight for my love and that's more than you will ever comprehend.
I simply just long to feel human.
Now is that so wrong?

By. Lauren

I love what I do so very much but I don't know if what I do loves me back.
My love for poetry wraps around my heart and squeezes it until it struggles to beat onward.
I love writing poetry.
But does poetry love me writing it?

By. Lauren

Ice cream.
Melting.
Dripping.
Falling.
Splatting.
Crying.
Creating.
Giving.
Licking.
Swallowing.
Smilin­g.

By. Lauren

Calling: Ex
Buzz!
Buzzz!
Buzzzz!
Buzzzzz!
"Please leave a message after the beep,"
The phone seemed to scream in my ears.
Beep!
I hope you know
You ruined my
*******
Life!
Goodbye.
*static cracks explode like bombs being fired directly at me