The waves are calm, and the sky is clear on a beautiful night above the deep-sea waters. I can see the stars as clearly as I can see the land that I am sailing away from, they are far more beautiful than the land of greed.

This is my escape boat, invisible only in the cloak of night and so I am forced to leave at such a dangerous hour. But fortune at current is on my side, for the water is calm; maybe it has sensed my turmoil within and has decided to take pity. Pity the soul who has been lashed as harshly as the waves treat land. At least they have the grace to cool the burns, something that I could not even dream of as the slave of a military man.

A man who was as cruel as the wars he served, he forced me to cook for them, polish their weapons and build fortification all while a whip followed at my tail, threatening to beat down at the first glimmer of a fault.

I worked every waking hour until the master finally took break from service, that was when I finally saw my escape. The master’s daughter liked to walk by the sea, and I was charged to guard her. Of course, the harbour men never spoke to me, but I stilled watched them and from the snippets; I heard that they never left at night and that one of them was even foolish enough to leave their keys on the boat. The master lived in a small town that was void of crime and so the people here are complacent.

Finally here I was, after months of secret planning, on a boat in the fog of night, still a clearly foolish plan despite the food I had stolen. But one I referred over the burn of my master’s grip. I sailed on and on, hopefully going west, where new land lies. My future now depends on the mercy of the sea I thought as my gaze drifted along what the stars and moon allowed me to see, I was still far too close to land to open the lights.

I checked the food and began counting my rations while the boat sailed on for hours and hours, from night to day, I sailed in relative calm, a calm that I am forever grateful for, even if I was weary of it. It was unusual for the sea to be so calm when I have only ever known it to be a cold violent scream who kill and destroying as it pleases and without any regard for the human souls that sail upon it.

It was strange, to be prepared for wrath but not receive any, I breathed in the salty air and watched the seagulls soar as the sea guided me through her open world and straight to the first humans, I had seen days, pirates. I watched their black flag approaching me and a doom settled over me, of course it had to be pirates and not the sea, I should have known that even she thought me unworthy of dying in her waters.

I am nothing but a slave after all, I thought as the pirates anchored and peered down to my small boat. “Ahoy lass, who are you, to be sailing on these fine waters?”

“…I-I am no one important…please just let me pass”

The pirate in the red coat smirked and said, “let you pass” He laughed “No lass, I'll in need of new crew members and so I'll be capturing ya for me ship”

I looked at him confused, am I to become his slave then? to escape one master for another…I kept quiet, so he spoke again “I'm kidding, I’m not capturing ya, I am asking ya to join me crew”

“What?” I asked shocked to be invited rather than forced. I stared for a while and then said yes, better to comply than for them to take offence at my refusal. But the captain turned out to be a jolly sort and smiled as he said “Welcome to the crew lass”

And so I never did find the land of the west, instead I found a pirate land on ship and a new life on the open sea. The pirates were as savage as men in battle, but around each other they were kind and merry… I guess to be human is to be flawed.

I don’t speak

Its been a tough week

It’s hard to speak up

So I sit here quietly, I won’t interrupt

I’m scared of what people think of me

And it gets so hard to breathe

I could be standing in a crowd, they could be saying nothing

But their presence is so loud it feels like they are judging

I can feel this fantasy rejection

And just like wifi, I’m losing connection

They blame it on society

That it is the reason I have Social Anxiety

But that’s not the matter

Because I feel as if I’m about to shatter

And that feeling of nervousness comes creeping quietly

Followed by the rest of my anxieties

I am a really nice person but whenever I think to say hello

My self-consciousness comes in, and its something I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow

And I see judgment in your eyes

My mind keeps producing these lies

And I’m on a steady decline

that I wish I could define

My voice I do not own

So I stand here alone

Choking on my words

While I watch my tiny world burn

It’s often said that homophobia stems from one’s inability to accept their own sexuality, or the fear of having one’s own sexuality challenged.

It’s funny, really - we say sexuality isn’t a choice, yet these folks seem to fear theirs will be taken away somehow.

Growing up I had the honest-to-gods blessing of being raised in a loving atmosphere of tolerance. Had I actually been homosexual, I would have had no issues coming out to my family, friends, etc. Everyone around me supported me - even down to my grandparents, who wouldn’t agree with it but still made it clear would love me nonetheless. I know this because thanks to my quirky personality many of my family/friends thought I really was homosexual. To the point I would get annoying little hints like “You know it’s okay...” with the obvious subtext of “Why aren’t you coming out already? Don’t you trust me?”

Growing up I got teased and called homophobic nicknames in school, but it never escalated; I’m a pretty chill person and I had a strong circle of friends. I ignored it, which was easier because I knew it wasn’t true. It probably didn’t spread more since I never had an actual homosexual relationship either.

I rarely got hit on in high school, probably partly thanks to my perceived homosexuality as well as the stifling small town that snuffed out non-straight relationships, which meant I didn’t get hit on period. When I went to college I finally did get hit on - just by people of my own sex. It never bothered me; in fact, I found it flattering. They were often higher than my own so-called “hotness rating”, to the point that having to politely turn them down actually depressed me. I could clearly see I’d be way more of an MVP on the other team. I just couldn’t change my jersey.

I’ve even had a few random homosexual dreams, none of which phased me; they just weren’t as exciting as the straight ones. I actually understood them to express my frustration at having to take care of my own needs for so long stuck as a single, misunderstood straight person.

But all this is because I accepted my core. I knew either way I went it wouldn’t change my important relationships, or who I really was. I never felt threatened or scared by homosexual behavior or advances, because I knew if I did swing that way it wouldn’t matter. I had the safe space to question, consider, and understand my own heart.

And that is why homophobia is so hurtful and damaging. If others won’t accept us, how can we accept ourselves? If we put conditions on our love and tolerance for others - on their behavior, on their relationships, on their mannerisms - how can they navigate their own feelings with confidence?

Many of my LGBTQ+ community friends constantly point this out in their efforts to ensure legal protections as well as push for religious reforms in their own community churches. LGBTQ+ kids are at higher risk for suicide and depression. Maybe they’re not being literally lynched - but the fact that they’re killing themselves means homophobia is nonetheless lethal. They’re being ostraciszed by their so-called Christian neighbors. They’re being treated like they have a disease by fools who buy into “conversion therapy” and its ilk. They’re being penalized for “displaying” homosexual behavior, when the media splashes straight sexual behavior all over without a second thought and they can’t escape that constant reminder of how they’re not fitting the norm.

If homosexuality bothers you, look inward not outward - why does it bother you? If you know your own heart, your own tastes, your own core - why does someone else’s matter? I’ve been mistaken as a homosexual, hit on by homosexuals, seen homosexual porn, cried at homosexual love stories, smiled at homosexual PDA’s -- guess what? I’m still straight. Still not bothered.

Because it’s just love. And I have recognized love has no threat or impact on me - as opposed to fear, which definitely does.

And I may not play on that team - but fuck if I will not fight for their right to play.

Rosina had spent years buildng her dream house. Decades. The design alone had taken at least two years, then came the sourcing of materials along with engineering around architectural issues, some redesign, negotiating labor contracts with local dwarfs (who always overcharged old ladies), and then finally getting the permits approved from the local kingdom's office of taxes and settlements. The ordeal had taken much of Rosina's golden years straight out of her teeth, but she had endured. The beauty that surrounded her daily had all truly been worth it.

Then of course some idiot's unsupervised children had shown up and wrecked it all.

Rosina had been inside baking when she heard the soft crunch of the little brats biting into the crown molding, their greedy little hands smudging dirty fingerprints all over her reinforced ginger siding. They'd ruined an entire window frame before she'd managed to round them up and herd the little sugar addicts into the shed out back.

Both the boy and his awful sister had whined and cried, spitting her own waterproofed royal icing back into her face. Such rudeness; not only did they trespass without any care for local home owners' rights but they complained when an adult actually reprimanded their appalling behavior. Rosina had several choice words for their parents, however she suspected nobody would be coming for them any time soon. Children this misbehaved often got left in the woods. Unfortunately nothing had found these two before they had found her little haven.

Growing up, Rosina loved sweets. She had spent hours with her own grandmother over an oven, baking and decorating from dawn till dusk. Not that it came without cost; Rosina's own frame has grown quite plump over the years, and her grandmother had suffered from sugar sickness during the last few years of her life. Yet her passion for pastries and puffs never wavered; and when the time came for Rosina to retire she finally had the means to bring her dream to reality.

As she surveyed the damage, Rosina determined a little extra spackle from her supplies in the basement should patch the holes the little devils had left just fine. No need to call for any dwarven estimator; she'd handle it herself. Rolling up her sleeves she got to work on repairs, hurrying before any chance of rain came.

It took her nearly three days to repair the damage, ensuring at least two fresh coats of frosting along the area they had nibbled. The entire time the two brats had done nothing but howl from the shed. She had ignored them, not bothering to feed or even check that they still lived since she had thrown them inside. Secretly she hoped they would just die off, but the noise had started bothering the local wildlife and Rosina didn't need to attract more trouble. She'd have to take care of it herself.

After repairing the window casement to her satisfaction, she went inside and put more wood under the old oven. Rosina held only a sweettooth - children as rotten as these could never satiate her palate - but wasting fresh food felt wrong. Maybe the wolf next door would appreciate a nice mincemeat pie. After carefully preparing a crust, she put on her apron, sharpened her drywall saw, and headed out to the shed.

She supposed she should have fattened them up a bit first, but honestly they'd already wasted precious resources on her home. She could just add more potatoes.

...

Sadly, Rosina never finished her thoughtful pie for her kind neighbor the Wolf. Just as she had raised the saw to chop up the little boy, his wretched little sister had shoved her inside the open oven door, slamming it shut and roasting poor Rosina alive in her own sanctuary of sugar. The quiet retirement she had hoped for would never be. Only the torment of a fiery death, and the horror of realizing those two spoiled imps would eat their way through her dream home before her ashes could cool.

And when the rabbit saw the girl approach,

with bloodied hands and a smile that did not belong on the face of a child,

he turned his back and fled

so that her hands could not stain his snow white fur

in the same way they had stained

so

many

others.

For a long time now

My mind has been completely blank

And I haven’t been writing anything

interesting, if I can quietly be frank.

So whoever wants to do a collaboration

Please DM me, so you could be

my savor and motivation.

For no matter how much I long to write

This absent mind of mine

I cannot overstate

But you could invigorate and awaken it

If you and I, would collaborate

Midnightink 7-9-2020

**

This is not for comments or likes.

But if there is anyone who wants to do a collaboration, I’d appreciate it.

**

Some days I wish

I could replace this throbbing heart

with dandelions

bright and yellow and sweet.

and there, where my breast-bone meets my ribs

the poets would weep.

Dandelions are not a symbol of love,

and how can we quantify the pining of our hearts

if the only thing filling the vacuum of our chests

is a weed?

And as the tears of poets fill my lungs

dandelions float into my throat

and I begin to choke.

The poets turn away

-back to sketchbooks filled with doodled hearts-

But with a final breath I laugh,

a bitter, victorious, thing.

What is left

when the poets can no longer

describe my heart as aching for its other half?

when love ceases to be the most interesting thing about me?

Even in the euphoria of my victory I know the answers to these queries.

Without a heart

I become worth little more

than the flowers that fill my chest.

When love is the currency of womanhood

it pays little to be a weed.

And the story of my life

would fit so neatly here,

penciled between a first kiss and a shiny ring,

as if my ability to love another

is the only thing worth remembering

at the end of the day.

But in a journal tucked at the back of my nightstand

I write of a girl who filled her chest with flowers.

Who slid a black ring onto the middle finger of her right hand,

if only to fill the empty space

left by a heart that was never there to begin with.

And the girl grins,

for when your heart is no longer fodder for halfhearted love poems

you begin to live for yourself.

I’m a hated man Mother Africa

Who lives in an agonizing fear

Out of your sight and embrace

In a place called “America__”

Shedding an endless tear

They tell me to, “go back to

Where I came from!”

But I am lost for 400 years and so

And now I don’t know where is home

“You don’t belong here,” they say

That’s the song of the land

Which plays every single day

By the same old band

Where have you been all these years

When they snatched me out of your arms?

Why didn’t you come looking for me

And save me from all these harms?

I’m sure you’re quite saddened

And broken to pieces to your cores

Carrying the heavyweight of regret

That’s still knocking at your doors

I get so upset you were silent

When they loaded us on the invisible ships

After 400 years of hard & free labor

Our banks are null saving no gold

or the sweat of our stolen coin-chips

Sometimes I get so angry

So furious of your silent-surrender

But for you’re my Only mother

I can’t be mad at you forever

I’m a hated man Mother Africa

Who’s suffocating to breathe

Their knees are still on my neck

For they’re forcing to keep me underneath

MidnightInk 6-6-2020

Once upon a time

There was a place called Africa

Where God breathed air into clay

And made a man and woman

The man and woman bore

Many children, they grew big

And the continent was filled

With many tribes

Who scattered across the land

Who spoke so many languages

And had different customs

Life was simple back then

For they were living

In the Garden of Eden

They were vibrant and peaceful people

Ruled by Queens and Kings

They were like the Amazon forest

One day, the wind blow from the west

Everything changed overnight

The wind brought strangers to the shore

The people opened the gates of heaven

And invited the strangers in kindly

The strangers saw the fruits in the gardens

But they didn’t like any of it

So they began chopping them down

With sharp axes

Sometimes pulling them down

From the hanging trees

The strangers then carried the remaining fruits to their new land

Since their arrival

The new land was cold and barren

for the fruits of Eden

The delicious fruits blamed the ships

That carried them across

the vast open oceans

Suddenly, the bell rang

It’s 2020 now

The globe woke up

For 8 minutes and 46 seconds

They couldn’t believe it

They couldn’t breathe

They squeezed their eyes

Hoping for the image to disappear

But the image was vivid, black as the night

So, they marched

Fist and hearts in the air

Running into the suffocating

smokes, battered by wooden sticks

And sprinkled with water

As they begged, “we can’t breathe!”

So, they cried and shouted more

Until their noises no more echoed silent

But woke up sleeping souls

they chanted, protested, sang

Soon, the heat came down

The sun set in the horizon

The nightfall took over

Then, just a few trees left

standing in gray shadows

The fruits in the Garden of Eden

Are withering and wilting

Although the rainfall is pouring down

Cascading like thunderstorms

In a new feee-land

Where even the sun

is shining at night

YS 6-14-20

There are no bad cops but

bad systems and teachers.

Unless it’s Absolutely necessary,

an officer of a law takes an oath

to do No Harm

under any circumstances;

because the badge

he/she wears is an honor

which stands for Blind Justice

to uphold the law of the land

by protecting and serving,

especially those ones who cannot

protect themselves

when their mere existence

is harmfully threatened.

Those are the Good cops,

the heroes, the ones

who’re righteously thought

the meaning of upholding the law

even if it gets them

on the crossfires with their peers;

those are the Great Cops

who’re sworn to discharge

the duties of their badges,

the ones that give their lives,

if and when necessary,

because, that is, the oath

they take to protect

and serve the public,

the oath that Must remain

ingrained in their flesh and bones.

(YS 6-1-20)

#blacklivesmatter