Aspen Writes Poetry

They tell us, to keep our chins up, as if despair can be, brushed away like dust, from an old bookshelf. Their promises fall, like brittle leaves, from a dying tree, each one, a reminder, of the decay. We’re asked, to be resilient, while they hoard hope, in locked rooms, and golden vaults. We clutch at crumbs, while they feast, and preach patience, as if hunger, is a lesson, we must learn. The weight of their words, sinks us deeper, into the shadows, where dreams, wither and fade. But in the silence, of our shared pain, we find a voice, and in our unity, a spark. We are more, than their indifference. We are the storm, that will cleanse, this house of lies. We rise, because we must, for in our struggle, we reclaim, the light.

Transphobia is a virus, That spreads in speeches, Coated with the sugar of tradition, Masking the poison within. The grey vote sought, With promises whispered,  In hushed tones of nostalgia, While denying others breath. Silent nods to a past unkind, Clutching to ghosts that blind, Blind to the vibrant present, Where truth seeks to unwind.  In shadows, they conspire, Lighting a fire of fear, Hoping to burn bridges built, By hands intertwined in hope. Yet in those hopeful hearts, And hands intertwined by hope,  A different song sings,  Stronger than any wrong:  Where love knows no bounds,  And every soul belongs.  - Aspen Greenwood 

You rise before the sun,   Gathering fragments of yourself, Left scattered by yesterday's fatigue - Emotional journey of carers. Each day, A mountain to climb,   With no summit in sight.   Your hands blister,   Your heart aches, Your mind a labyrinth,  Of forgotten dreams. You lift others, While your own wings, Weigh heavy, Tethered to the ground. The silent warriors, Unseen, uncelebrated,   And still, The world turns its back. You whisper your needs, Into a void -  Challenges they face. Societal neglect,  A ghost that haunts,  The corridors of your being, Rendering you invisible. Yet your love, Carves rivers, Through stone. The paradox:   You care until you can't, Then become the one, Needing care. Your strength turned inside out, The heart that gave, Now breaking.   Persistence is your anthem, A melody unsung.   But it echoes in the chambers, Of those who know, The price of giving all. Unpai...

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No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things. I hold my grandmother's necklace, A gift from her mother,  Who worked hard to buy it. Who saved every penny. So that I could wear a piece,  Of our history, Around my neck. No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things.  I touch the books on my shelf, Each spine a story, That belongs to me. Each page a world That I can enter, Whenever I choose. No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things. I look at my home, Each corner, A reflection of who I am. Every photograph, A memory, I am free to cherish. No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things. They tell me, Sharing is caring -  But I ask, Isn't it also caring, To honour the toil, The dreams and hopes, That built these walls, That filled these drawers. No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things. I value the sweat, The sacrifice, That allowed me to: Hold my grandmother's necklace, To touch the books on my shelf, To look at my home. ...

The spectrum of ideals,  A wheel turning endlessly.   Communism whispers:   We are all equal, Brother and sister, Hands in soil, But the dream—   Often,  Diluted by the power-hungry, Utopia morphing, Into chains. Capitalism sings:   Freedom and choice, Merit and reward,  But look closer—   The promise of abundance, Is a game, Where the rich, Write the rules, And the poor, Can’t afford the dice. Fascism roars: Order in chaos,  Strength in unity.  But its foundation, Is built on fear, Of the other, Walls rising higher, Voices falling silent. Each ideology, A promise of paradise. Each reality, A shadow of control. When ideals, Turn to dogma,   When power,   Corrupts vision, The circle spins, Hope into despair,  Dreams into oppression. Each -ism,   A mirror,   Reflecting the other's flaws, The wheel never ceases, Spinning us in a cycle. We must break, With compassion, And ...

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝘆:   "Hate the sin, not the sinner,"  As if my love,    Were something criminal.  As if the way,  My heart beats, Could be dissected,  Into wrong and right. 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝘆: "Hate the sin, not the sinner,"   While they turn their eyes, From bruises on my skin, Pretending not to see, The shattered glass, In my smile.   𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝘆:  "Hate the sin, not the sinner,"   But their silence, Is the loudest,  Kind of violence. I am not, A lesson to be learned. I am not,  A confession to be made. I am, A soul seeking, To love and be loved - And their words, Cannot erase, The truth,   Of who I am.   𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝘆:  "Hate the sin, not the sinner,"  And in their ignorance, They commit the greatest, Sin of all.

  𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝗧𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝗺 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗯𝘂𝘀𝗲, 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀. 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗱𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱. In a world that often feels,  More like a battlefield, Than a home, There are those who say:  You're lucky. 𝗟𝘂𝗰𝗸𝘆: Because your family didn't turn their backs,  When you showed them your true colours.   Colours as radiant as the dawn, Yet in their acceptance, You're reminded, That love should not be, A stroke of luck   𝗟𝘂𝗰𝗸𝘆: Because the streets you walk, Only shower you with words - And not with acid or hate, Dressed in violence. They say: This time, it was only urine, As if humiliation, Is a softer kind of pain.  𝗟𝘂𝗰𝗸𝘆: Because this generation, Is slightly kinder, Than the last. As if that's th...

 In a room full of colours, I am told, Mine does not exist. - Invisible Lines They question , The truth of my heart, As if it is a lie  I must prove. - Under Scrutiny Just a phase,  They say,  Pick a side,  They demand,  As if my love, Is a coin toss.  - Erasure Every kiss, Becomes a statement. Every touch, A battle cry. - Love as Defiance I wear my identity, Like a question mark,  Others seem eager to straighten. - Bending not Breaking Whispers of not queer enough, Haunt me, More than rejection. - Gatekeeping Hurts I find myself,  Splintered, Between worlds,  Belonging nowhere, Fully.  - Fragmented Yet in the quiet moments, When doubt screams loudest. I remind myself, I am a whole universe,  Full of unexplored love  - Self-validation Pansexuality,  They struggle to understand, It’s not confusion, But the refusal, To be confined,  By their narrow corridors, Of who I should love. - Boundless Imposter syndrome, Tel...

 In the guise of shadows, my story unfolds, A secret writ deep in the creases of my skin. Invisible ink stains my days, With a narrative only I can comprehend, An opus of resilience, sung low. My skin, a tapestry too complex for eyes to see, Wears a cloak not chosen but bestowed by fate. The world sees not the battles fought within, Where every morning rises like a steep cliff, And my spirit, weary, scales it anew. People pass, their glances sliding off my hidden contours, Blind to the marathon in my veins, The effort cloaked in the mundane, A performance so practiced, so refined, That even those closest read but the cover, not the tale. Misunderstood whispers tangle in the air, Murmuring doubts, casting shadows on my worth. Look how well, they say, not seeing The storm-tossed seas I navigate each moment, The tempest invisible, silent, yet relentless. Yet within this cocoon of invisibility, Lies a power, a fierce undying flame. For every moment I'm underestimated, I forge my will, ...

 In the half-light of the consulting room, I was renamed— not Mary, not Jo, not Ella, but Chronic, a label stamped on my forehead, invisible ink that everyone seems to see but me. Chronic – the prefix to my every condition, a companion more loyal than any dog, nudging its cold nose into my business, whispering sweet nothings like forever and never again. Mornings taste of metal, spoon-fed by routine, pills rattling in their orange bottles like maracas, a fiesta I never wished to attend. Outside, the world spins at the speed of life, while I am stuck, buffering, a video paused on the face of someone laughing. My bed, a life raft in the open sea of my bedroom, holding me aloft amidst waves of sheets and the detritus of my own shipwreck— the books I mean to read, the clothes I swore to wear on days I'd conquer the world, not the bathroom. Let's catch up soon, they text, those friends of mine, not realizing I've been frozen in amber since the last time they saw me smile, a phot...

 In the quiet of twilight's shadow, where love dares to whisper its name,  we find a world, tangled in sorrow, where phobia is a misnomer, a misguided claim.  Not a fear born of nature or the unknown depths of the night,  but a cloak, veiled in prejudice, an unwillingness to embrace the light.  Ignorance breeds this shadow, a heart locked tight, unwilling to see  the simple fact of love in all its forms, wild, boundless, and free.  Phobia suggests a terror, involuntary, a chill to one's core,  not this learned disdain, a shut door on love's endless lore.  Yet they stand, the unyielding, wielding phobia like a shield,  as if homophobia were a monster in their hearts they're forced to wield.  But fear is not the master here, no trembling hand or beaten sigh,  but a chosen blindness, a refusal of the rainbow stretching wide across the sky.  The heart knows no borders, no genders, no decree,  that love is love, in all its...

In the shadowed breaths of the old city, Where ghosts of war whisper through cracked walls, There, we weave the threads of our human spirit, Fragile as spider silk, yet unbreakable in their ties. We dance in the ruins, our feet tapping stories, Old as the moon, yet fresh as the dawn's shy blush. Each step, a word; each leap, a sentence In the book of us—love penned in ash and dust. I’ve seen a mother’s eyes, deep as a night without stars, Hold the universe of her child’s laughter, Loud enough to shake the heavens, Loud enough to silence guns for a moment's breath. In the cathedral of the human heart, where sorrow prays, Love, that old priest, still speaks in tongues of flame. Our hands, scarred by life's battles, reach across the void, Touching—oh so briefly—the divine in us all. We build bridges out of our brokenness, Crossing rivers swollen with our tears. Through each shattered piece, light gets in, Casting rainbows on our scars—a testament to resilience. Even as the dru...

 Remember that day, just walking, hands tangled like vines in spring, Down our own street, thinking this was our world, a safe cocoon. Laughter in our bubbles, your laugh echoing in my head, a sing- Song of 'us against the universe'. But shadows loomed, too soon. First, it was words flung like stones, from the mouth of a passerby, Words that struck, sharp and cold, breaking the air around us. Hate, a dark cloud in that clear blue sky; didn't understand why Our love, something so pure, could cause such a fuss. It was the sudden shift, from invisible to target, Our hands unclasped, the air turned icy, heavy with threat. Didn't it feel like a sick sort of spotlight, that hatred, stark and abject? That day, the colour of our love, it changed; something we couldn't forget. But, mate, that was just the first of many, wasn't it? Each outing a roll of the dice, a gamble with visibility. The streets we walked, the parks, the pubs, pieces in a world that didn't quite ...