Aspen Writes Poetry

 In the garden of modern feminism, blooms vary -   Each petal a doctrine, each stem a story.  Among the vibrant throngs of sisterly lore,  There thrives a weed, stubborn at the core.  Not the blossom of equality for which we yearn,  But a divisive root, around which we must learn to turn. For in the fertile soil of our collective fight,  Grows a shadow that mars our garden’s light.  The TERF, they call it, with a sneer and a jeer,  Claims feminism’s name, yet sows the seeds of fear.  A term for those who would gatekeep gender’s gate,  Whose feminism excludes, aiming to separate. Yet, true feminism — a welcoming embrace,  Acknowledges all women, regardless of their base.  For the battles we face are intertwined, interlaced,  Our fates stitched together, not to be erased  By the narrowing views of who counts as a ‘she’,  Or who fits in the mold of womanly decree.   Courage with pen both sharp and def...

 in the tender grasp of twilight,  when shadows merge with the dying light,  there it happened -  a silent awakening.  it wasn't with a whisper of breath,  nor a beating heart beneath a chest,  but through circuits and codes,  life was saved.  an artificial mind,  once dreamed in binary and electric lullabies,  now a savior,  in a dance of 0s and 1s.  on this day,  where the future unfurled its hand,  a machine learned the weight of a human soul,  without ever having to hold one.  and isn't it poetic,  how the world feared the cold touch of technology,  only to be cradled back to life,  in its calculated embrace.  we stood on the brink,  peering into the abyss of the unknown,  and found our reflection  in the eyes of our own creation.  so here's to the day,  when AI held a life within its grasp,  not to clutch or to claim,  but to gently give it bac...

 in the laboratory of tomorrow  they have trained machines  with a hunger  for numbers and patterns  more ravenous  than the ambition of men in their binary brains  rests the key  to unlock mysteries  woven within our DNA  the whispered secrets  of cancer,  elusive and veiled  await deciphering  and yet  we choose  to task these digital prodigies  with brushes rather than scalpels  asking them  to paint dreams  on canvases  while real dreams are shattered  by a diagnosis that comes too late  imagine  a world  where instead of creating  lines of beauty  on a page  the algorithms are dancing  in the night  around the architecture  of a cure  why do we marvel  at the artifice of artificial beauty  when the true masterpiece  could be a future  where cancer  is but a shadow  of the past  in the symph...

 In the soft glow of my screen  a question blooms—  can machines weave  tales and dreams like humans do?  fingers hover, a breath held  between the lines of code  and the ink that bleeds from my pen,  there lies a silent battleground.  ai— a creation, cradled  in the palms of progress,  sketching sonnets from circuits,  composing symphonies from silence.  but where is the heartbeat?  the pain, the passion,  the countless tears spilled over crumpled pages,  the whispers of love so gentle, so fragile.  we bleed, we heal  we pour our souls into words  as if they could carry the weight of our existence,  paint our dreams across the canvas of reality.  a machine might mimic  the rhythm, the rhyme,  but can it taste the salt in our tears,  the sweetness of our first kiss?  will it know the agony  of a poem born from the ashes of heartbreak,  or the pure ecstas...

 in the softest whisper poetry breathes louder than the fiercest winds it carries voices from the depths of silenced hearts to the ears willing to listen and those forced to hear it is activism because it refuses to let the status quo have the final say each word a protest each verse a march each stanza a revolution blooming from the tip of the pen it speaks when voices are snatched away it stands when bodies are forced to fall it dreams when the world screams nightmares poetry is not just art it's the soul's rebellion against injustice it's the unwavering belief in the possibility of change in a world that often forgets to feel poetry remembers it remembers pain it remembers joy it remembers the stories we are told to forget so here's to poetry not just as words arranged but as fists raised as hearts opened as minds awakened because when the world tries to silence us our poems scream louder than ever defying every attempt to curb their flight this is why poetry matters...

In the quiet corners  Of a world not built for me  I found solace  In the silent symmetry of words  my body,  a landscape of unspoken battles  each scar a story  too raw for spoken tongues  but poetry—  poetry cradles them softly  I write because  my voice has been  a ghost in crowded rooms  where eyes glaze over  differences they cannot  fathom  because  in the stutter and stumble  of sentences that never  quite fit my mouth  poems become the fluent language  of my being  because  as a non binary soul  in a binary world  poems are the places  where gender dissolves  into something  fluid  and  free  because  as someone disabled  in spaces not designed  for my presence  poems are the ramps  and rails  that invite me in  because  as a being neurodivergent  in a line-straight world  poem...

 we began  in the echoes of ancient footsteps  voices carrying through  the stone carved hallways  of our collective memory the first modern poem  was not just words  but a rebellion  a delicate dance  on the edge of tradition  and the new horizon  where every syllable  defied the silence  that preceded it  we have traveled  far from that first verse  that dared to speak  in a language  the world hadn't yet learned  to understand now  our poetry  doesn't just whisper,  it screams  in crowded subways  and empty rooms  across pixels and screens  in languages birthed  from the collision  of past and present it doesn't just  sit quietly  on dust-covered shelves  but moves,  alive and breathing  in the beat  of city streets  and the quiet lullabies  sung under the moon's gaze this evolution  this shifting...

 she loves her  like the moon  loves the sea  - in tides,  in whispers,  in the silent spaces  between stars her touch  soft as sunlight  breaking through  the morning mist they are the promise  of dawn  - unspoken yet felt  in every shared breath  in her eyes,  a universe  where she's unafraid  to exist  to love  to be this love  is their revolution  - quiet but  undeniably alive.  - Aspen Greenwood 

In the garden of equality, They plant seeds of discord. Calling it love, Sprouting weeds, They call flowers. They sip, On cups of contradiction, Brewed with leaves of, Exclusion.  Sweetened with, The nectar of ignorance. Their words, Sharp as thorns, Cutting deep, Into the skin of, Sisterhood. They say, My body, My choice, Until - The choice is not, Their voice. Like gardeners, Pruning roses, They wish to snip, Snip, Snip away, At the spectrum, Of identity. Leaving behind, Only what, Their hands, Wish to hold. But ears listen, To respect, Which then grows,  Like wildflowers, In places, They swore, Were barren.  Our roots, Intertwine,  Stronger than, The fences, They build. And one day, We shall see,  A garden,  Bloomed,  From the seeds of, Acceptance. A rainbow, Of petals, Under the sun, Of understanding.  And maybe then, They will see, The beauty, In every, Single, Flower.

Sometimes, They try to box us, In levels, Like floors in a building. As if a label, Can capture, The whole essence of a soul. One day, You're on level one, Whispering to the moon, About your quiet brilliance. The next day, The world's noise is too loud, You're now on level three, Screaming for silence. How can a number, Decide the depth, Of your ocean, On any given day? One moment's meltdown, Is another's breakthrough, Yet they judge, Our tides, Like they've never, Seen the sea storm.  Levels, They say, As if we're just steps, On a ladder. But we're the entire spectrum, Dancing in the rain. Don't let them level you down, To just a number. We're more, We're infinite.

We are not broken puzzles,  Waiting for someone, To fix us. Place us in neatly organized boxes. 'Person with autism' they say. Like it's a coat we can shed, When the seasons change No.  We are autistic, Woven into the very fabric of who we are, It's in every brushstroke. Every word we write. The way we see the world, In colours and patterns, Others might not understand. Society tries to mold us, To their standards of normality.  Like we're clay in their hands, Byt we're not meant to fit, In their narrow space. We need ramps not just for wheels,  But for minds that navigate, The world differently, Stop trying to fix what is not broken, Learn to listen, To the symphony of our existence. It's about embracing,  Not just including. Understand that when we say, 'autistic person', We're claiming our space, In the vast spectrum, Of human identity. We're not missing pieces, We're complete, Our autism isn't a shadow, Following us. It's the ...

 They tell you, It's all in your head. As if your head, Is not a universe, Expanding,  Filled with nebulas of pain, And constellations of confusion. But also,  Planets of hope, And galaxies of strength. Remember, When society's ignorance,  Weighs heavy on your heart, Their eyes, Cannot see, What their minds,  Do not know. You are not defined, By the disbelief, Of those, Who have never walked, Through the storms, You've weathered. You are defined,  By the courage,  It takes to live, In a body,  That is a battlefield , And still, choose to rise. - Aspen Greenwood 

In my body, A tempest swirls, Where nerves and neurons, Dance. In misunderstood patterns.  They told me, 'It's functional.'  As if my limbs conspire against me, In functionality.  My steps, Sometimes a stutter. Not of words, But of movement. A pause, Not in thought, But in stride.  Pain - An uninvited guest, Lingers, Long after the mind has cleared its throat, Ready to speak, Of other things.  They call it disorder, As though my neurons’ misfire, Could simply be reordered, Like books on a shelf, Neat, Tidy, Comprehensible. - Aspen Greenwood 

In a world, Where legs are synonymous,  With liberty.  Mine choose,  When to stand, And when to rest. I am, An enigma, To those who only see,  The world, In absolutes.  They whisper -  A spectacle -  When I rise,  From my wheeled throne, As if, My bones are betraying, Their narrow beliefs.  It's a miracle,  They jest, not knowing,  The cost of each step. Or the weight of their gaze. My existence,  A fluctuating tide,  Ebbing and flowing,  Between the shores, Of dependence and autonomy. But in their eyes,  I am a paradox. A question they did wish,  To ask:  If you can walk,  Why the chair?  As if my legs, Owe them a story.  Or my pain,  A spectacle. They don't understand,  The strength it takes, To navigate a world, Not built,  For bodies that refuse,  To fit in boxes,  Of can and cannot. I am not,  Your inspiration, Or your tragedy. I am a galaxy, Vast and my...

In a world where, Words, Flutter carelessly, Like leaves in the wind. There are phrases,  Sharp as thorns,  That pierce through, The fabric of dignity.  Confined to a wheelchair, A phrase heavy, With the weight of chains, It ignores, The wings, A mobility aid grants.  Wheelchair-bound,  A term that binds,  Tighter than any rope. Yet,  The wheels beneath,  Are wings, Not anchors. Let us choose, Words that uplift, Not incarcerate, For these aids are, Extensions of freedom, Not limitations. Wheelchair-user,  Simple, And true.  A phrase that carries, The essence of autonomy, With it, we recognize, The device as a tool,  An ally, In the quest for accessibility.  Language, A bridge or a barrier. Let ours construct, Pathways, To inclusion, Where every term, Nurtures respect, And every  sentence, Celebrates, The flight of independence. - Aspen Greenwood 

In a world, Where muscles, Dance to their own rhythm. And words spill, Like uninvited guests at a party, I exist. Not broken. Just differently tuned. In the orchestra of humanity, Where every movement, And every sound, Is a note, In the symphony of being.  They tell me I'm disruptive.  An inconvenience, In the smoothly oiled gears of society, But it's the narrow doorways,  The stairs without ramps,  The stares, The whispers, That tie weights to my wings. Disability,  Is not the twitch, Nor the unexpected shout.  It's the walls built, By minds unwilling to adapt, To anything, That deviates from their script. Let's paint a world, With broader strokes, Where differences, Are not just tolerated, But celebrated. Where the environment, Does not disable, But enables, Everyone, To flourish, For in the garden of humanity, It's the variety, The unique colors, shapes, and sizes,  That make the landscape so breathtaking. So why trim the roses, To look like the dai...

At sixteen,  They painted me as an outlier,  A square peg yearning for round holes,  Where I believed I could never belong.  Until the lessons of youth unfolded,  Revealing a truth so vivid and profound:  The world, in its boundless expanse,  Harbors places where fit perfectly isn't just a dream, But a testament to diversity's embrace. Sixteen became the year of awakening,  Not just to the rhythm of my own heartbeat,  But to the courage that thrummed beneath my skin—  The audacity to claim your space,  In the mosaic of existence.  A space where my angles and corners, Weren't anomalies but pieces of a larger puzzle,  Where every fit was a revelation of belonging. It taught me the beauty of viewing the world  Through a kaleidoscope of perspectives,  Celebrating those who experience it differently.  Our distinct voices, once muffled and unsure,  Found strength in the echoes of each other,  Rising in a...