Wednesday, 24 May 2017

Was It Real? (May 24, 2017)

When I stand
Before you.

Am I
A weed?

You need  
To puck
And tossed away.

As you run away
In search
Of that herbicidal spray can.

Your immaculate life
Into its artificial 
And lifeless form.

A delicate flower?

Like an erotic orchid
To be treasured
For my (inner
And outer) beauty.

Gracing your life
With love 
And happiness.

As only
Two souls 
As one
Can know.

Therisa © 2017

Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Valley Girl To The Max (February 23, 2008)

Listen here
You damn virus
You're suppose
To left my body.

Two weeks is
More than enough time
To move it.

Like last week
Waking up
With a sore throat
Is like.
Yesterday news

I want today's news
And you're not it.

Isn't it like
Time for you
To get your bags packed
And leave
Pronto like.

Oh no
I must be sick
I'm writing
In Valley Girl mode.

Does anyone
Still speak
Like this
Totally rad way?

At the thought.

Therisa © 2008

Author's note: Another poem taken, from my poetic morgue. About 12 days ago, I noticed the first signs of a chest infection that still sticking around me, refusing to leave, like a good guest does, when asked to. Somehow, I remembered this poem, and so, am now sharing it, with a wider audience. And yes, I do remember watching the movie and the TV series, Clueless.

Sunday, 21 May 2017

Girl's Best Friend (November 24, 2009)

Friends shouldn't part
On such sour note
Never to have contact

No matter
What we wish.


You're always there
For me.

My life's high points:
Birthday parties
Trips to Dairy Queen
A stunning sunset
After a beautiful day
At the beach.

So many great memories.

One August afternoon
A secret meeting
Between us.

On a bitter note
Forever dooming
Our relationship.

It wasn't so.

But reality says
For me.

Death is
By Chocolate.

Therisa © 2009

Author's note: Another poem, from my poetic morgue. This time exploring my extreme food allergy that I have caffeine, through the lens of chocolate, which has become, my bitter enemy.

Friday, 19 May 2017

Steerage Class Citizen (May 19, 2017)

Please forgive me
If my anger boils over
And I say 
Or do something.

That I'll regret 
To you.

So want
To get into your face
And scream obscenities
Until my voice is hoarse.

A mere whisper
Of itself.


Just because
We weren't born
With the proper plumbing
Like you.

You think
We don't know
What it feels like
To be raped
Or abused?

Eight years ago
I came forward
To a local abused
And battered women centre
In Toronto.

Looking for help
In dealing
With my abusive past.

Having clearly
As a transsexual
(Male to female).

And yet
I was sluffed off
To a local counselling service
By the intake worker.

Who doesn't specialize
In the issues
Abused and battered 
Women face.

As if
She's yelling
To the callers
In the phone queue.

Any wonder
Feminism has become
A pejorative word
In Western society.

By turning your back
On the real needs
Of your trans-sisters
With your misogynistic  

Ensuring all women
In chains
Of oppression.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note:  On May 12, 2017. I noticed this article on, about the Senate hearing on C-16, the inclusion of gender identity and expression, under Canadian law and Canadian Human Rights Act,  ( which I support, as a Canadian, who identifies, as trans, and live my life, as a woman. As I read this article, I grew angrier, at the dismissive tones, of those feminist, who view people, like myself, as basically, gender traitors, to other women.

Reality is, we face the same discrimination, as cisgender women do, and more, in the way that Western society is structured, and has influenced other societies, around the world. Honestly, why would anyone want to give up, their position of power, to live life, as some feminist would argue, as the dominate birth gender, as a male?  In many ways, trans-woman, are starting, at a lower point, in society, with the barriers that we have to overcome. Many cases, losing our biological families, our jobs, and sense of self-identity, as we transition, from one gender to the other. 

Sadly, on May 14th, I accidentally erased this poem, and for the past 5 days, have been struggling to rewrite this, while battling a very nasty chest virus, which is slowly clearing up. This version of the poem isn't as angry, as the original one, the thoughts, and frustration, still remain. 

I wonder, how these feminists view the Intersex community, and their struggles, for political recognition. In that, these women were deemed, at birth, to be visibly male, and yet, chromosomally, are female, with underdeveloped female reproduction organs. Are they not female, since they can have periods, which many trans-women, only dream of; given these feminists' .agrument.

Thursday, 11 May 2017

Bitter Ashes (May 11, 2017)

Was my birth
A moment of joy

A stillborn daughter
And two miscarriages
On your previous attempts.

Followed up
By a preemie baby boy
Almost three years later.

Can tell you
My rebirth
As you daughter
Was nowhere near
A joyous occasion
For me.

Do you blame
For having
A trans child?

Even though
The literature
Is mixed
On explaining

Took out 
Your misguided anger
On me?

Turning your love
Into fear and loathing.

As our relationship
Is a scarred 
And scorched battleground.

Like those
One sees 
On the evening news
From Syria.

With little hope
Of a resolution
Any time

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: For those, who don't know, I accidentally "outed" myself, to my mom, on July 1, 2006 (Canada Day), when she showed up, unannounced and unwanted, at my apartment, after I told her, I wanted the long weekend, for myself. Claiming, I sounded depressed and wanted to help me. The reality is, I was, at the end of my 2 weeks, of booked vacation time, and just wanted to relax, before going back to work. Having just got my ears pierced and started to dress more femme, in my off time, from work.What little time, I had.

In the following year, I got information, about local support programs and contact numbers, near my mom's rural home, like PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians And Gays). Knowing my mom, she never called them, or showed up, for one of their support meetings.Tossed the brochures, into the recycle box, after I left her place, 

Before anyone starts calling me, a b*tch, you need to know, my mom told me, over the phone, in a cold and calculating voice: 

"Hell will freeze over, and you'll have to crawl on your hands and knees, begging for my forgiveness, before I think about it."

And she wasn't talking about Hell, Michigan, either. Yes, there is a place named that, which surprised me, given how puritanical, some Americans can be. 

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

The Loneliest Number (May 10, 2017)

How do I describe
This irrational feeling
That grips my soul
In its iron grasp.

Of this need
To run away
And hide
From people.

Simple things
Like taking transit
Triggers anxiety attacks
Bordering on
Outright panic attacks.

Needing outside help
To leave my apartment
For taking out
The garbage.

And self-loathing
Fill my soul.

As I rattle the bars
Of the invisible cage
Inside my mind
That holds me.

Hoping to find
One loose bar
To aid
My escape.

As another bout
Of agoraphobia
Sinks its talons.

Into my struggling soul
For who knows
How long.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: This will mark my third major bout of agoraphobia, in the past 8 years. The previous two bouts, lasted several months before I could resume, what passes for my normal life. I am hoping, that I am wrong, in view the past 6 months, as a warning sign, to a possible renewal of agoraphobia, which last visited me, two years ago, staying for 3 months, before departing, after Labour Day. There are times, I hate my body, for the mental and physical struggles, I face, on a daily basis.

Friday, 5 May 2017

Untitled (May 4, 2017)

Never wanted
To be different
From other people.

I am.

Feeling like
I'm cursed
Or worse.

A diseased biomass
Meant to be
Put down
As a mercy.

Asking myself
Why is it
Am able to
Help other people.

And yet
Am struggling
To help myself.

To bash through
This invisible cell
That surrounds me.

As guilt
Fills my soulscape
Like a layer
Of freshly fallen snow.

A long and emotional

All parts
Of my life.

The past
And future.

As the tears
Of sadness and frustration
Roll down my face
In shame.

In wanting
To reject this "gift"
Of being hyper-empathic.

Therisa © 2017

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