The priest puts his trust
In martyrs and miracles
Clutching his rosary and his celibacy
To his bursting breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

The ***** puts her trust
In bordellos and bodies
Clutching her money and her condoms
To her brassy breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

The lawyer puts his trust
In regulations and rules
Clutching his charters and his decrees
To his dusty breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

We each put our trust
In roles and rituals
Clutching convention and convenience
To our timid *******
So humanity continues to walk
Through a series of self-made cages
Every day

                 By Phil Roberts

I will walk a thousand miles in a warm and lit wood,
Or lie in the dark all day, my chest pounding, sometimes my palms sweating.
I can love you with my entire being, with an open heart and outstretched arms,
I can nearly hate you also. The thought of betrayal, burning flames lapping up inside of me.
I will exhaust myself with tears about things that haven't happened yet. Far off thoughts, ones that are merely dust in the wind.
Then I will tell others not to worry about a thing, while my own mind consumes me and all that I do.
It's a challenge to practice what I preach.
I am trapped underwater, I am flying through the clouds
I am singing out loudly into the bright sunshine, I am silent in the lonesome night.
I am free as a wild stallion running across the grasslands, I am a bird with clipped wings.
I don't know the color grey
I never have.

captain's log, #1
 
2/26/16, 4:06 a.m.

my heart is growing, but has turned into an anchor. i guess a bigger heart means a heavier one, too. i remember what lightning bolts feel like. the elephant's feet are back. 

captain's log, #2

3/3/16, 5:05 a.m.

i think i know why night is the enemy. without light, there's no colour. i look out my window now, i can see a sun peeking over the horizon, and i know that the world does not spin for me. so why doesn't my brain work the same? i don't remember how or when this infinite night crept up, but i feel like someone took the saturation bar behind my eyes and slid it all the way left. i miss outlook. i miss the sun. 

captain's log, #3 

3/3/16, 9:52 p.m.

your bones get so weary and cold that all you're able to do is sit in the shower with the hot water all the way up, and it makes you feel less disgusting for a bit but we all know that letting water run over your body doesn't clean it, or your mind, of this filth. the greatest romantic couldn't make what you did to me sound remotely beautiful. many nights i have stood desperately scrubbing and washing my skin until it's raw but your touch still lingers.

captain's log, #4 

3/5/16, 3:14 a.m.

there are too many things in this world that i crave. i long for a different body, a different place, a different me. the rational parts of my brain know that this is what i've had, what i have, what i will always have and that i should just make the most of it, but depression creeps from somewhere dark, far below where my feet stand, and moves its way up my spine like a fiery slug. i am now realizing that the devil on my shoulder never left, only lied dormant. 

captain's log, #5

3/7/16, 2:10 a.m.

been driving too fast with my eyes closed. been smoking again. been forgetting to eat. been thinking a lot about the fine line between, "i want to die," and, "i don't want to live."

I am not sure
If I am an artist,
But I like to watch
The way your mouth
Creeps into a smile,
And how your laugh
Crawls deep from the bottom
Of your belly.
I like the way your eyes
Glisten
When you first pry them open.
I like the way your hands
Hold onto me,
As if I'll float
Up
Up
And
Away.
No, I don't know
If I am an artist,
But I can recognize a masterpiece
When I see one.

It burns so much to think that his hands touched another girls' the way they touched me
I waited for him and he took advantage of me never being able to say no
and I couldn't smell the cinnamon whiskey on his breath because I was already drowning in it
but he could never touch me unless he threw a few back

Being transgender is like this:
Everyday of your life, you have always wanted a dog.
For as long as you can remember--
even if you don't know to what extent--
you have wanted one.

You asked your parents, Santa, the easter bunny,
even the tooth fairy.
Then one day you get a dead cat for your birthday.
You say "This isn't a dog,"
But "You get what you get and don't get upset"
So you carry around and care for the dead carcass.

All sorts of people look at you,
unable to understand what you are doing.
So then one day you decide to try to make it look a bit nicer.
You wash it a bit, comb what little fur it has left,
cover the decrepit limbs.

But then you realize the futility in doing this all the time,
because you are still carrying around a dead animal.
So you continue to carry it around because you have to,
no matter how horrible it may be.

Although you are carrying around a dead and rotting cat,
you aren't a ******* cat owner;

You still want a ******* dog.