Aspen Writes Poetry

 Vessel and Illness Vessel: There was a time,   when my skin sang   like the morning   and my bones whispered   promises of forever.   Illness:   I came like a shadow   creeping in,   silent,   until I was   all you could see.  Vessel: You took the air   from my lungs,   the strength   from my limbs,   left me gasping   for the days   I used to know—   you anchored in my veins.   I felt you in my mornings   when getting out of bed   was climbing a mountain   I never trained for.   You whispered in my ear,   told me I was weak,   made my strength your myth.   Illness: I am not the villain   you believe me to be.   I am the storm,   the reckoning,   the teacher   you never asked for....

The Trans Queen, sworn to the realm of fluid light, sovereign of the shifting self,  her crown a constellation of scars,  each gleaming like a star in the firmament of becoming. She ruled not just a kingdom,  but a landscape of bodies  in flux, a thousand transformations  sewn into the fabric of skin. Her subjects: those who journeyed through the labyrinth of mirrors, who plucked courage from the thorny roses of truth, whose veins  coursed with the lifeblood of bravery.  They were monarchs too,  in their own right, each dawn  a coronation, each dusk  a testament to survival. The Trans Queen,  whose voice carried the weight of ancient oaths and modern  revolutions, spoke in tongues unheard by cisgender ears. She summoned histories buried under layers of shame, rewrote their endings  with the ink of pride. She, the keeper of names  like sacred relics, held the keys to freedom's door. Her laws were simple: be who you are...

Life has a way of presenting us with unexpected connections, often in the most unforeseen circumstances. One such connection that profoundly shaped my heart was with my ex-partner's daughter. Our bond, though unconventional and not bound by blood, became a testament to the beauty of relationships formed through shared experiences and genuine affection.  The Ribbon In a box of memories, behind the Christmas lights, a crimson ribbon, frayed, tied in a soft bow. It wasn't mine. Yet each loop, each thread whispered a story not entirely unknown. She came into my life like a song you can't remember hearing for the first time, already familiar, a lilting tune of giggles and borrowed shoes. Eyes wide, with wonder, like unwrapped gifts. Sundays with her were tangles of play and books, fingers sticky with jam, her laughter bouncing off the walls, light as air, while I traced the curls of her hair, golden threads. Once, she fell asleep in the crook of my arm, heartbeat gentle, tiny br...

Am I that weird jealous ex to her? In whispers of darkness, shadows dance, Two souls caught in a tragic trance. I see her now, weary eyes,  The same sad story, no surprise. I want to tell her she looks poorly, But am I just seen as that weird, jealous ex? I want to tell her she deserves more, But am I just seen as that weird, jealous ex? Her smile, a mask, fragile and thin, A façade for the pain within. I know that hurt, I've walked that line, But will she see, or dismiss my sign? I want to tell her I've felt that sting, But am I just seen as that weird jealous ex? I want to tell her her heart can sing, But am I just seen as that weird jealous ex? The nights I cried, the days I hid, The love I thought I needed, I outbid. I broke free from those chains so tight, Yet she remains, dimming her light. I want to tell her she has the strength, But am I just seen as that weird jealous ex? I want to tell her she'll find her length, But am I just seen as that weird jealous ex? In her...

   This poem is clearly inspired by Martin Niemöller's famous piece, which speaks to the dangers of silence in the face of oppression. However, it's important to acknowledge that the original work by Niemöller dealt specifically with the events of World War II and the Holocaust. My version expands on this theme to address various forms of contemporary injustice such as the EDL riots.   First, they came for the Muslims, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Muslim, it was not my fight. They shouted in the streets, torches bright in the night, And I turned off the news, seeking comfort in silence. Then they came for the migrants, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a migrant, it was not my plight. They closed down the borders, built walls to new heights, And I stayed in my home, kept my head down and quiet. Then they came for the dissenters, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a dissenter, it was not my strife. They silenced the voices that spoke o...