Girl

In a perfect world,
This red lipstick ,
Won't result in bleeding chins,
Or blood stains from hateful cane strikes to the shins ,
But they caught me and beat me,
Will I live long enough for this story?

In a perfect world,
My gender won't be such a statistical danger,
So people don't have to worry about sleepovers,
Or parents won't be so worried of their daughters ,
Just because  one of their friends,
Looks too much like a potential father.

In a perfect world,
I won't be accused of trying to get into anyone's pants,
Just because I have no problem holding anyone's hand,
Or cuddling with my loved ones when it's cold and because I can,
I've made it clear I do not want you,
But why is it because of my cock I suddenly need to?

In a perfect world,
I love you because of your person,
Not because Men's Health tells me that nerdy guys are in this summer,
Or if you want busty girls, here are ways to get her,
Or because my  hormones just wants to ramp it up a bit higher,
I want you because of my suden willingness to make myself vulnerable,
Not because I'm suddenly having a boner.

In a perfect world,
I will wear that dress,
And no one's gonna say "Wax already.
I thought you wanted to be a girl,
One that's pretty?
Are you just cross dressing?
Or do you wanna be Britney 'Britney'."

In a perfect world,
I won't have to feel guilty blaming my friends,
Because it's not their fault,
They didn't choose these currents,
These societal norms,
Their scared, tired parents,
These gender-segregated dorms.

In a perfect world,
I will be able to talk about it,
Even if I might come off as quite a nitwit,
I probably do not understand your struggles,
"You don't have a uterus, you don't understand our troubles"

Maybe I can't understand you,
I don't see through your eyes,
Or go what you go through,
But I'm trying
And can you try and understand me too ?

Coz I am trying, however clumsily, to speak for every woman who wants to grow a beard but still want God to forgive us,
For every man with manicured nails but want their guy friends to still think he's toughest.

I am speaking for myself, and all the people who want to be... a person,
Instead of a cog in your machinery of social movements.

You are uncomfortable,
I don't want to make you uncomfortable,
I'm sorry,
I forget I can't force anyone to accept me if they're unable.

But at least let me accept me.

In a perfect world,
I would accept me,
Instead of trying to forget about  an endless tug of war of what's "my acceptable identity",
Instead of smoking more and more cigarettes, to end it all slowly,
Because a knife to the solemn heart scares me.

In a perfect world,
I probably won't be a perfect girl,
But I won't have to be part of your depressing world.

But at least when I watch my life unfurl,
I get to do it with a grin,
With MAC on my lips,
Proud hands on my hips,
As a boy who wants to be his favourite girl.

Some perfect world.

A Pair of Socks

I know you think the voices inside your head are loud,
But that does not mean we can hear them,
This does not mean we already know you.

I Insist

"No, I really do"

He beckons me with tired arms.

I was already walking in his direction, anyway. Contemplation wasn't part of the question. I ran towards him like a mother's gusto, scrambling for her long estranged child.

I embraced him and he shivered. Out of the pores of his skin came sweats made to cool him down, but as of now, only adds to the inconvenience.

The closer we get, the less relevant were the physical borders that separated us. I became one with his mind, seeping into the canals of his noisy wooden box.

Let me in, I am your Intrusive Thought.

Green Is Good

I hate the corporate,
Material world,
Throwing advertisements into the corners of my eyes,
Ardently distracted by all of these booming voices with catchy jingles recommending world views,
Aggressively suggesting lifestyles.

Too fat,
Too feminine,
Too hungry,
Not just for the Big Mac displayed on the screen,
But acceptance.

So, I take a walk outside, fresh air, empty lands,
Filled only with trees, shrubbery, and animals without the chemical need for ecstasy in dazzling entertainment.

Peaceful ones,
I look upon the sunset,
The clouds upon hills,
Green,brown, but of chlorophyll and soil,
Not artificial preservatives,
Hues powered by plastic from oil.

To fight industry,
if not with force
of the mind and
muscle,
To rebel by escaping the noise,
Of discounts, new releases and
bustle.

I would give money for this cause,
If I could make it last,
As long as a cement overpass.

_____________________________________________________________________________

"How are the numbers looking?"

The taller figure hidden but for his silhouette asked, while staring at the span of wall with screens displaying moving scenery worthy of computer desktops and oil paintings, simultaneously.

"We're making tons", said another man, seated in his swivel chair, scanning the happenings while going through panoplies of statistical imagery.

"This unorthodox, anti-brand veneer really works. Putting in all that money thinking they're preserving what is 'pure'. We scare them with scarcity so that they will always be driven by a sense of urgency. They know too little, but the best consumer is an ignorant consumer".

"What if they stop buying into it? What if they find out?", a nervous quiver in his voice.

"They won't"

There was a long pause, as several of the screens showed groups of people tying themselves to trees and chanting 'SAVE THE TREES FOR OUR CHILDREN'.

"Even if they do, we have other ventures. It won't matter"

The taller figure hidden but for his silhouette walks out of the office, past a plaque on the wall that read in glossy holographic letters:

NATURE INC.
OWNED BY GOOGLE SINCE 2045
STAFF MEMBERS ARE REMINDED NOT TO BRING ANY DOCUMENTATION OUTSIDE OF THE PREMISES

Angels with Machine Guns

"So much blood,
Cadavers in the flood,
Of things begging to be left alone, from the trenches, from their shivering bones.

So much blood,
So much catastrophe,
So little time to properly end this with me.

In times of turmoil and melodramatic malignance, I struggle to be I.

I am hungry, but that does not matter,
I am hungry, hence I rape, pillage and plunder,
I am hungry, but this is not about my hunger.

This is about my honour.

No, I am not poor and destitute,
Although all I have left is my ragged boot.

No, I am not alone and require self-affirmation,
My duty is to nobility and self-determination.

This is not about my flesh,
This is for my soul,
This is not because I am a monster,
I am doing this for my honour.

OUR HONOUR."

The worst propaganda, is the propaganda we tell ourselves.

Fast-Paced Winter-Diving

Timmy loves winter.

He likes the silent whiteness. Among the sledding and the making of snowmen.

Timmy likes the feeling of gathering thick snow to make weapon projectiles.

Timmy realizes that when he put his fingers in the ice there is a pleasant numb feeling.

The best kind of shield. Like a really thick glove protecting you from external stimuli.

Timmy learned the word stimuli in school.

Timmy was looking at his half-frozen hand and Timmy found out that this glove is going to kill all the blood vessels in his palm. Hypothermia.

Timmy learned hypothermia from his late father. Who died from hypothermia.

Where Timmy lived, it was always snowing.

Timmy remembered the funeral. It was beautiful.

Timmy thinks death is beautiful.

But as Timmy lay buried in the snow and looked up into the shiny subzero sun (oh the beautiful pale star) he notices the icicles around him melting.

No.

No.

Goodbye lethargy.

The sun will now melt your slumber away.

Goodbye denial.

The sun will now reveal your body, your decay.

Goodbye.

Timmy sees the wrinkles on his hands now. Pruny fingers.

Timmy sees his father's corpse now.

Timmy dies alone, when it was revealed to him that his only patient friends were the glaciers reflecting him.

It's summer now. Timmy is sad.

Headlights

What we want is to be an individual. And we go through great pains to attain that individuality.

Like when it's dusk and the sun is setting, and you're stuck in the peak hour traffic.

Several cars around you have already turned their headlights on. But you refuse to follow suit. You wait awhile until YOU think it's dark enough, instead of relying upon what other people think "REALLY DARK" is.

I mean what does that say to you about yourself, if you just turn your headlights on when other people do it?

They would call you a sheep, that's what. An obeisance, meek, follower of trends.

But what if it gets really dark? Who cares about individuality?

I'm going to have to turn on my headlights anyway. I don't wanna die because I crave the feeling of being special.

But no, you love that feeling. Okay, let's reach a middle ground. Turn the lights on, but slightly later or earlier.

You can't turn them on too early though, they'll think you're a nutter with the headlights on at 4 pm.

If too late, then you'd be driving blind, unable to see anything.

God, but this is a terribly important decision.

Never mind that 80% of the songs you listen to are listened to by millions of others around the world, the value of which is corroborated by charts and album sales.

Never mind that you delete jokes that don't get enough 'thumbs up's on your social profile.

Or that entertainment television has inevitably monopolized your conception of aesthetics, telling you what's in and what's out, while you tell yourself you don't really believe in them, but at the same time you feel embarrassed when other people don't conform to these standards.

All of those things don't matter.

What matters is that when you turn on your car headlights, it's because YOU want to. Not because other people are doing it too.