#disabled poetry

[rosebud-poet]

[Black text on a white background that reads:

my gender is whatever makes me easiest to kill,

my gender is breeding stock, kill all men, can’t you just stay unobtrusive and neutral, the question cut apart in debate chambers, my ragged flesh and bones picked for statistics and arguments by vultures in suits who go home to too-young wives, breathing out my same old screams to useless onlookers sitting in rows, you’re disgusted by my blood on the floor but unwilling to shoot down what’s killing me slowly, what are the magic words i need to say to get you to care that i’m dying, 

my gender is polite young woman in a pantsuit long long dead, forward-thinking and modern, isn’t it funny that she lived as a man, she wanted better opportunities, we dug up the body and passed it around the archives and if you look here you’ll see the place where they cut out the most important parts, so sad to see such irreversible damage, so sad she never had children, so sad she was mutilated, but she was such a trailblazer, the first woman to put a bullet in a state senator’s head,

my gender is a bullet in a state senator’s head, shooting down vultures before they break my sibling’s skin, crippled tranny faggot (triple threat) with a score to settle, with a gash down the center of its chest spitting fire through pharmacy phone lines, never fucked someone who wasn’t an enemy of the state, never was your little girl, sticking around till the bitter end and triple dog dare you to come bash me yourself you bloody-beaked coward, come watch me be the monster you all say i am,

my gender is whatever makes me hardest to kill.]

[chronicallycouchbound]

A Prayer From Bed / Bound

My bed is a shrine to stillness, to rest, to warmth, to intimacy, to love, to relaxation. In this space, I practice rituals of devotion. Here, I set down my worries. I create art. I sit with my pain. I share in pleasure. I say prayers in every action and every inaction. I honor my bedridden body in all of its glory. My disabled body is a temple, I am a humble priest. I will tend to it dutifully— by doing nothing.

[mxmorbidmidnight]

The Verdict (an original poem)

the new version of this poem, I have previously released some of it. It's the story of when the tics came on, I thought it was the end.

[silverslipstream]

Patience

Some days, the privilege of living isn’t enough. The weight of the kettle is unbearable. You leave the teabag forlorn in the mug, unpoured. Cooking seems too great a price to pay for eating. Instead, you sit and you look at a book without reading it. The shower feels like too much. Your pajamas feel like too much. You tell yourself (falling asleep in your jeans) that tomorrow will be better. You’ll do things tomorrow. You’re good at waiting for good things. Wait for the morning birdsong, the greasy tastiness of bacon, the day’s first robin, the soothing thrum of traffic, the crunch of fallen leaves. Wait for the smell of paper, the coolness of river water, the low clouds daubed with stripes of sunset pink and orange, the peaceful early moon hanging resolute in a pale evening sky.

[cosmoechi]

early-morning walk for the waking.

[chosimbaone]

Hello everyone!

I'm back here on National Poetry Day to recommend my girlfriends amazing, heartwarming poetry collection, The Bindings. Poems about life, love, grief, triumph, and so much more by a Black woman with Cerebral Palsy.

You can purchase physical copies at the link below:

[danathon23]

I wrote a poem titled “SICK”. I decided to post it here while it’s July (2023), Disability Pride Month.

Image description: A brown paper journal lays open on top of light blue bed sheets. The page holds a poem written with grey and maroon colored pencils. An orange knit beanie lingers in the top right of the photo, creating a soft arched shadow that hesitates right above the poem. The title of the poem “SICK” appears in big letters and has an added effect that could be described as creating a shadow or a 3-Dimensional effect. The drawing of the word “sick” is what led me into writing the poem, which reads:

SICK

see how it rises / the letters of the word duplicate / double / there’s more / abundance here / sunshine and shadows love and / grieve — being / more possibilities / sinking beyond space and time

End image description.

[hanslwrites]

framework

i am the very definition of self-destructive i say, with no shame it's automatic, symptomatic simply, a fact of life unfair and terrible and mine to claim

who was i meant to be if not this i don't regret anything i wouldn't change a thing wouldn't risk all i have for a different person in the making because this made me me

i am the very definition of broken but i am not wrong i view the world from another angle unexpected but sorely needed my time is limited but i'm not ready to be dismissed

i am not brave when i suffer when i merely persist as if it's even a question i am brave when i tell people where to go when i tell people no

[ghost-type-dan]

Anyone who knows about poetry willing to critique a pantoum I made? Its about dinosaurs/god/chronic pain

It's not necessarily good, but I still want to improve and hear what people think.

[goldenvirginiaoriginal50g]

my poetry work

[poemtrans]

— “actually, i rather like myself scarred, thank you very much!” by @poemtrans

[poeitryforsomereason]

I love you horror book cripple bitch

Tap-glide walk like thunder you have places to be

March through a puddle just to blot a perfect bullseye next to your boot print

Master a dead-eye-stare through a migraine and use it every day

They will laugh at you but they will move for you

Parting like dust before a fan

They will never know your smile

[kermits-cup-of-tea]

i dream of long walks,

i dream of running,

i dream of taking long hikes,

i dream of learning to dance,

i dream of riding horses,

i dream of swimming,

i dream of riding my bike,

i dream of going bouldering,

i dream of taking the stairs,

i dream of having my dream job,

i dream of walking without a limp,

i dream of painlessness,

i dream of the things i've lost,

i dream of who i used to be,

i dream of wearing my favorite shoes.

[mxmorbidmidnight]

wip

[rootbeer-goat]

the ancient gods had one

trick, stick your head in a

vice and receive wisdom.

the blessing was pain, separation

of parts, deadness

and over and over

and each time, the same.

be a little kinder, it

could be much worse

The shaman of Bad Dürrenberg are the remains of a 25-35 year old woman, who was burried 8600 to 9000 year ago in Germany. Around her, were the remains of an extraordinary head-dress, made from the bones and teeth of different animals such as deer, wild boar, crane and turtle

[mayday-and-daydreams]

( Day Eighteen )

{ Written on December 20, 2023 - 6:38 PM }

[ Nemo’s Headphones: Karma Police - Radiohead ]

-

(TW Suicidal Ideation n stuff, just be aware)

-

Sometimes

Every so often, it doesn’t really matter what I’m doing, but my eyebrow will hurt.

I reach up and rub my fingers over the scar there, from the eyebrow piercing I used to have.

The one I did myself.

I really liked the way it looked while it was there.

For once I actually smiled when I saw myself in the mirror.

Any pain was worth it for that brief moment of satisfaction when I saw someone I knew rather than a blurry face as my reflection.

Did you know piercings can reject out of stress?

I didn’t. I do now though.

I remember that when things got bad, all my piercings, even the ones I’ve had since I was nine from Claire’s, got infected again.

I wasn’t sure why.

I mean, looking back, I know why I didn’t understand, because getting worse was a slow descent down the hill, rather than an abrupt tumble off the cliff.

I didn’t notice when things turned gray because every day I woke up things were just grayer, and I stopped noticing anything was different until I saw in black and white and had to acknowledge that something was off.

I didn’t know piercings could reject out of stress until one day I just pulled it out of my face by accident.

I wanted to see if I could.

And I could.

There’s a scar there now, but you can only see it if you know what you’re looking for.

Can only feel it if you know where to touch.

It made me upset, then, and still does.

I couldn’t even get a cool scar out of this. That’s the least I could get.

No, all my scars are internal. All my pain is visible to nobody but me.

Hard to get somebody to believe you’re hurt when every wound you have is invisible.

But that’s just how it works I guess.

I wish I had scars, sometimes.

I wish I could bleed and hurt and ache like everyone else.

I wish I could show someone my wounds and once and for all prove to everyone, but mostly myself, that I’m not making this up.

It’s real. I’m hurt. Please help me.

God knows I need it.

Invisible Illness is killing me in more ways than one.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of future I have when I’m like this.

I got a job recently.

Two weeks ago tomorrow.

But it won’t ever be two weeks, will it?

I was doing well.

I was told so by my superiors, so I can only hope they weren’t lying to placate me or something.

I tried, I did.

It won’t ever be two weeks because I had to resign today.

I feel like such an asshole.

But I can’t.

I’ve been sick for nearly five days now with no sign of letting up.

Now, surely, getting sick isn’t a reason to quit your job, they’ll understand, and when you get better you can go back, right?

That would be the case if it were a cold, or flu, like everyone else has.

But I don’t know if what I have will ever go away.

I don’t know if I will ever recover.

Sometimes I forget that I’m not like everybody else.

I get so angry at myself that I can’t do what my friends do, can’t do what others my age do, can’t walk, can’t run, can’t get out of bed, can’t stand on my feet and work without being bedridden for days.

I get so angry that I’m not like everybody else. Because they can do it, why can’t I?

I’m just not everybody else.

Sometimes I wish I was dead.

I wonder what kind of future I can have here.

What kind of life I can look forward to when every goal and dream I had fades away as this stupid disability I have slowly gets worse.

I keep whispering to myself that things will be better when the doctors finally figure out what’s wrong with me, but I wonder if that’s really the case.

The others tell me that it’ll be okay, because when they find out what’s wrong with me they can fix me.

It feels sometimes, like I’m the only one who wonders if I even can be fixed.

Sometimes I wonder if I did something to deserve this.

If this is divine punishment of some sort.

Because what’s the alternative to that?

That I didn’t do anything?

That sometimes good people just have bad things happen to them and that’s the way of the world?

I don’t know if I want to believe that.

I want to believe I deserve this, somehow.

Because the alternative means that…

I didn’t deserve it, and this simply happened because…

I was just unlucky.

Sometimes I wish I was dead.

At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with this.

I want to scream and rip and tear and pull myself apart at the seams, if that’s what it takes to fix me, to find an answer, to understand just what exactly is causing this pain, this decay, this festering rot that plagues me from the inside.

I need to know.

Not knowing is killing me.

But at the same time, I don’t want to know.

What if it’s bad?

I am afraid.

I am so very afraid.

Sometimes I wish I was dead.

But sometimes I wish I was better.

I wish I never had to deal with this.

I wish things were better.

I wish things were better.

I don’t understand why that’s so much to ask for.

Sometimes I wish I was dead.

And that’s sad.

Sometimes I wish I was okay.

And somehow, that’s sadder.