Aspen Writes Poetry

  In the wake of decades of progress, the fight for LGBTQIA+ rights remains fraught with tension and division. As Pride celebrations grew, many marginalised voices, particularly transgender individuals, people of colour, and the poor, were too often sidelined, their struggles overshadowed by more mainstream, palatable narratives of queer identity.   The women who sparked the Stonewall Riots, Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, and Stormé DeLarverie, were at the forefront of a revolution, but over time, their roles in the movement were often forgotten or erased. The movement they helped ignite was built on inclusion, on lifting up the voices that were most vulnerable, yet today, many of those same groups remain excluded from the Pride parade, from its funding, from its visibility. If Marsha, Sylvia, and Stormé could see what Pride has become, what would they think? Would they feel pride in what has been achieved, or frustration at how their initial call for justice has been dilut...

 I call this one I hate social media (particularly threads today). The sheer amount of transphobic comments and ideology on there today is insane. Worldwide we are on stage 4 of the 10 stages of genocide dehumanisation and propaganda about trans people and as a trans person it is hard not to be scared.  In the shadows of digital corridors,  Whispers grow to roars—  Faceless screens spit venom,  Fangs of words  Sharp enough to carve identities. Dehumanisation blooms  Like dark roses in the garden of hate—  Propaganda, the gardener,  Weaving lies into the roots,  Fertilizing fear,  Cultivating otherness,  Until we forget to see  Each other’s humanity. Click—  Scroll—  Share—  Repeat—  Threads of narratives  Entwined in the fabric  Of our virtual lives,  Spreading poison  Like wildfire on a summer's day,  Igniting minds  With prejudice. The trans soul  Caught in the infer...

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 

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 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...

 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 ...