Aspen Writes Poetry

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.

 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 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.