Skip to main content

We're All The Same

POEM 53: WE'RE ALL THE SAME

And again they asked me,
"What girl hurt you to make you this way?"
And I laugh.

I laugh because they are too ignorant to understand
that 'in love' does not require a previous pain,
Or being massaged by a hand you thought you could trust
Or being kissed by a lips you couldn't thrust.

I laugh because they do no understand
Love has no gender choice
Love is neither girl nor boy
It sneaks into the heart of X
And implants the need to love another X
It places in the heart of Y
A love for Y without a WHY?

Because I said I'm gay
Again they cringe and ask me,
"What girl hurt you to make you that way?"
They look at me puzzled
As I spread my lips and chuckle.

I chuckle because they don't understand
Because their normal has but one meaning
Nothing other than NORMAL
And that is theirs -
Their kind of NORMAL.

I chuckle because they don't understand that maybe,
Just maybe,
I deserve love in whichever way
makes me feel the butterflies in my belly
To think, I Steve
Could blush for Adam
Whilst my hands perspire
in the pocket of my hoodie
And wonder why I look away
When Eve saunters down the lane
Left and right, shaking her bootie

I chuckle because they can't seem to see
That I have seen more love in the curves of her butt
Than they will ever see on their knees.
That I've kissed more lips luscious than hers
That they'll ever dream of in a brief lifetime.

I chuckle because they cannot seem to see
How pure his words sit on his lips
When he sings 'I'm in love with Steve'

But no matter how much I tell them that there is nothing wrong with me,
That no girl hurt me,
Even though they thought they did,
They persist with same funny phrase
But they no longer ask
They just stare and plainly state,
"A girl hurt you and made you this way."

I laugh
I chuckle
and wish they were all sane:
They would've all seen
We are all the same.

#365DaysOfPoetry
#Pengician #SSA

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Doris' Torment - A Villanelle Of The Rose | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 298: DORIS' TORMENT - A VILLANELLE OF THE ROSE Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose It was just so black and mellow But she could never forget the hose That morning, Doris was shocked by the pose She had to calm herself with a marshmallow Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose Later, Doris was spooked by a prose She tried to focus on a fellow But she could never forget the hose Alex tried to distract her with a transpose Said it was time to start thinking about a martello Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose Doris took action like an expose The rose was like a toxic jello But she could never forget the hose Doris nosedived like a tricky chose Her mind became dangerously yellow Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose But she could never forget the hose ------- This is a type of poetry known as Villanelle. ------- #365DaysOfPoetry #Pengician #SSA Enjoyed reading? Please leave a comment and sharing with friends. Thank you!

Featured Article | Quicken Us, by Paul Albert

QUICKEN US So will not we go back from thee: quicken us, and we will call upon thy name. KJV Then will we not depart from you; revive us (give us life) and we will call upon Your name. Amp -  Psalms 80 vs. 18. Ever watched a movie where your favorite actor was beaten to a pulp? Beaten to the point where standing on both feet becomes a prayer point? But beyond the pain little sparks of adrenaline still moves through His vein, He doesn’t want to give up or rather He is Hell bent to be the last man standing. I am sure you’ve watched such. But wait. Focus on this…  How did that man who has had a beating of His lifetime overcome His greatest fears? Maybe He remembers countless number of people who would become slaves forever to a conquering enemy or how unpredictable their lives would certainly become or definitely the cry of the ones He loves most. Then a spark is ignited, a fire that actually never died starts flowing through his veins again. You can imagine the velocity of adren...

Dear Nun | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 254: DEAR NUN I pray thee, dear nun, a morning psalm don’t be to me. Would rather you sow, deep in my heart, the yearning of your bud, in the wake of twilight. I pray thee, dear nun, in vain doth my want restrain from wrapping us in a hell of heavenly bliss, for though I kiss my Rosary, still it be blasphemy to rise and fall in lust's refrain. The lingering whiff of your first menses nor the beauty wrapped in flowing gown, doth conceal you inert desires, nor veil, with virtues, you [I dread to say nor write], for we’re far beyond those pretenses in which we cage love in pious frown You could hold a smile, it won't millstone your soul and cast thee hence in heart of Sheol. Shed now your sigh, estranged the flowing gown and let your long-lost heart embrace wanton thoughts. For they both appear, to pay sin’s toll, not one word from thence shall condemn your soul So would you make me now sweat beads from your Rosary? Would you let me take to another realm where clouds shall we...