You died for what you thought was right
in a non violent way
you died without a fight
on the day
you tried to right
the political way
you had to write
a paper to say
the message right
but you were caught
and were executed on one February night
and you never saw the day
when they were wrong and you were right

how might my reality be redefined
by slipping furtively
like a hapless lover
disentangling midnight sheets
fleeing past pathways of my own psyche
to see the view from her mind’s balcony

to inhabit intergalactic eyes
sparkling and shining like supernovae
every time she parts scarlet lips
in defense of the helpless

i'd plant gardens inside her irises
water the seeds and invite the bees
to pollinate fresh thoughts and rejuvenate
an energy that could illuminate new theories
about the cosmos and its inhabitants

i want to dwell within
corridors of infinite imagination  
bridge the synaptic gaps
across rivers of lapsing memories
a lackadaisical adventurer
adrift in neurological galaxies
ingesting erudite insight

i yearn to build a home
inside the mind
of a poet
an activist
and a bona fide genius

Just until today
I have come to understand
that my cause is all lost
that I live in a fog

Broken hearts I have seen
But none of them I have cured
I have borrowed an ear
But all I get is solitude

Just until today
I have come to understand
that I was born for those whose cause
whose path whose love seems lost

I've been the activist of the confused
I've hugged the fear, the tear the torn
I've kissed their lips when they've approved
I've watched them go... and never return

I’m writing this poem because
the cutting glares,
the jagged judgment
from strangers on the street
still chinks my armor—
Exposing my blackened limbs,
splattered with the remnants
of lies once lived.

I’m writing this poem because
I’m still scared
to hold my boyfriend’s
hand in public
because people,
hateful people,
display their disgust,
their disapproval,
their disappointment promptly
on their brow.
As if my life,
my ****** orientation
somehow affects them,
infects them,
injects my deadly
sin in them.

I’m writing this poem because,
yes, this is my boyfriend.
And no, we don’t want to f* you.
And yes, we’re second class citizens.
And no, we didn’t cause 9/11.
And yes, we are exclusive.
And no, God doesn’t hate us.
And yes, we want a family.
And know God doesn’t hate us.

Corners.
Corners.
Everywhere I look there are corners.

Windows,  no windows.
No doors.
No brightness, no light.
No escape in sight.

Cornered, I feel cornered.
They're pointing fingers.
They are. Who are they?
Who are they to tell me,
To sit between corners.

Corners, I feel cornered.
They are trying to erase every memory,
Making me lose track.

Corners, around the cornered.
When you feel cornered,
Look carefully,
There might be a crack.