A Railroad's: nothing but a dead mans tracks

That's my train
the one that's passing by
The roads are all blocked

These feet won't carry on
so far
I'm waiting for SELF-
Realizations:
There is no superman

The boat I'm riding
has long since docked
I must start treading
for my life.
I keep repeating:
This is for my life.

this force

I am strong.
This is not what you think
it is but so much more
to the sport of being
a constant
misconstruing and constructing,
re-correcting of
Every - body,
Every - one,
else's
idea for me

That is not who I am
But will meet me
Some - where
between, where
some - one must
understand me.

They who misjudged me and the
moment-
This moment - I get
You were wrong, I say
but you heard me right
enough to tell me to
Stand corrected, remind me

I am brave - like you.
Braver even
Perhaps I am,
for who I am.

The "What You Is" Game - sort of, kind of (in a poem)

SHE TAKES SEVERAL SHAPES
FIGURES
WHO AM I-
TO DEMAND FROM YOU
DIFFERENCE
THAT YOU CAN MAKE
I MAKE
LIKE A CAKE- WALK
OUT
ERASE ALL PRECONCEPTIONS
OF THE SELF
TACKLE
DON'T FIGHT
WASTE
ENERGY GOES, PROJECTILE
FROM EVERY DIRECTION
SPIRALS OUTWARD
EVERY TRACE
MY BODY
(in its entirety)
MY IMAGE, MY KNOWLEDGE
I AM
BESIDE MYSELF, NOT ALONE
BUT I AM-
MYSELF
BREADTH
WITH REASON

I heard, one day

I've heard that one day
there will be world peace
this world of mass and matter
is just a matter of what would be
had it not been planned,
that soon it would, self-deconstruct
ka-BOOM! explode upon itself
until the universe as we know it
slips, from our control, and ours
alone - the world as we knew it, gone

the difference between things i've been told & what i know

you should grow out your nails,
your hands look like mine!
i look down like any femme dyke might
and the next time i see a butch
lift up her hands and inspect her cuticles
i might stop
who am i to assume your identity
but still, they see themselves
as their fingernails, perceived differently

like others, i too am skeptical about this city
but one thing for sure, i know from experience
why is it easier to drive around brooklyn?
and what if - he might marry! ?
what does he think of me now?
my mind is spinning around the facts
i cannot grasp, nor the reality of it
being that, he probably don't give a shit

but i do. i want to know
explain to me on these terms,
new, and not too foreign, yet
i am not speaking the same language
anymore, less straight, queered version
myself, i am just wondering how to see
that this life converges with her
history, tell me, the disconnect
isn't yours alone but that emptiness
that space, no filler, for us to live
honestly, we created this to exist,
separate, the what's, identify that's you,
that's me