Youth Writings & Art


We have collected some poetry, songs, and short stories from transgender youth. Not all of these writings have to do with being transgender, but they are all beautiful works of art that we want to share with you. If you would like to submit some of your own creative writing, please send it to us!

We’re excited to see what you send in, but please remember that the TYEF community hosts folks of all ages, so please use your better judgement regarding content. Names and states will not be included in submissions, and images. Videos will be posted only of non-stealth youth and with parental consent.

You can email it to us at or send it the old fashioned way:

Trans Youth Equality Foundation

P.O. Box 7441

Portland, ME 04112-7441


Songs written by a 17 year old female to male transgender youth


Please listen to me 
I have a voice and I want to speak 
Let me be free 
Let me be me 

I have so much to say 
Just you always look the other way 
Please give me something to feel relief 
Please I just need to find peace 

Just let me say what I want to 
Don’t be too quick to accuse 
You don’t know what it feels like inside 
Don’t tell me you understand my life 

You don’t understand 
You don’t understand what it feels like 
You don’t understand 
You don’t understand what it feels like 

Please just let me be me 
Please just let me be free 
Please just listen to me speak.

Stop The Bully

You always will live on 
No matter how far away you are 
You are in a better place now 
Flying with the angels in the clouds 

I know you had so much stress 
Just felt like it was exploding in your chest 
You didn’t have to take your own life 
You could of tried to make the bullying right 

I guess all we have left is the memories 
Never will that bring enough peace 
You could of lived on to be 103 
But you left your friends and family 

I know you had so much pain 
It always flowed through all of your veins 
You didn’t have to take your own life 
You could of tried to make the bullying right 

You should have been able to be who you are 
You were filled with so many scars 
You weren’t ever different to me 
You were just a boy who wanted peace 

I’m glad you found relief 
And that you found the peace 
But you should of stayed here with me 
And we could of tried to stop the bullies.


Use To Be

I miss the way it use to be 
When I was something more to me 
Now I’m treated so differently 
Whys that gotta be 
I’ve always just been me 

I don’t wanna cry these tears anymore 
These fears are making me so sore 
I really need something to believe in 
I’m tired of being nothing to them 

I miss the way it use to be 
When I was something more to me 
Now I’m treated so differently 
Whys that gotta be 

I’ve always just been me 

Why can’t you all treat me equally 
I know that’s how its gotta be 
It doesn’t have to be destiny 
I just wanna be more to me 

I miss the way it use to be 
When I was something more to me 
Now I’m treated so differently 
Whys that gotta be 
I’ve always just been me 

I don’t wanna have these scars anymore 
Now I’m gonna be something more 
I deserve to be happy 
Now that’s who I am to me.



Submitted by a fourteen year old TYEF youth

M2F Guuurl

The sun continues

To rise everymorning,

And the moon rises,


It happens without fail,

And the stars,

Or the clouds,

Follow along

It doesn't matter,

Whether my day

Has been great

Or if it has been horrible

The sun is still there

In the morning

And the moon

At night

This is my favorite constant

For when either appears,

I feel protected and safe,

For those hours of day or night.

Poems by Athena Edmonds, a published poet and mom to a beautiful transboy

Gender’s Waiting Room

Samantha Phippen Morgan, 
dressed in cargo pants, hiking boots, 
and a camo shirt. Serviceman 
in the elevator, What a cute boy, 
he says. Saleslady at CVS, 
With those eyes you’ll break 
ladies’ hearts, she says. 
Drycleaner behind the counter, 
Boy or girl, she asks; beautiful 
eyelashes but boy pants confuse her. 
Boy or girl, I ask. But you refuse 
to answer. Instead, you bang and bang 
your head against the counter. 

Late at night you sit on my lap. 
You ask me, Are my eyes beautiful? 
They are, they are, I say. 
And you ask me, Are my eyelashes beautiful? 
They are, they are, I say. 
Then I’m going to need to cut them off, you say.

Last Dress

Published in Sugar House Review, Winter 2011

I jam 
the white 
smock dress 
over your head. 

in your dissent – 

you crumble 
in your father’s arms, 
as I fasten the pearl buttons.


Published in January 2010 edition of Connotation Press 

Daddies’ girls, mommies’ girls, valley girls, 
slutty girls, and girl virgins. Lip-ringed 
lisping girls. Girls with names of goddesses, 
names of months, days and flowers. Girls 
with names of jewels, fruits, and virtues. 
Girls who rule the slide rule. Girls who can 
battle boys in a beat on the beat on both 
drums and guitar on Rock Band. Girls that 
bond in bands named MalakAss. Girls that 
sprint in the first heat of the Nationals in the 
royal blue and white of the Greek flag. Girls 
in flip flops in February, scuffed Uggs in 
July. Why? Girls who sneak to the prom, 
their prom gown in a stop&shop brown bag. 
Freaking out both mom and dad. Girls 
who dye their hair from Manic Panic Cotton 
Candy Pink to Manic Panic Bad Boy Blue 
leaving Angry Purple streaks behind on my 
bathtub. Girls who love horses and White 
Horse, Grey Goose and grey geese, Beefeater 
and steak, Wild Turkey and Thanksgiving 
break. Girls in strings under juicy sweats, 
flying Chihuahuas in Chewy V-ton handbags. 

I try, I do. I try to put it all behind me, to put 
it in the past. Why must I weep and mourn my 
fourth, when my older three should be enough? 
I need to let it be! Her name cut in half, her 
brush in the trash, her wiry body performs a 
roundhouse kick in martial arts; the art of her 
body practiced, her affect deliberate, her nature 
scorned, her cool-dude style, by all, adored. 
Here’s your Spyder blue jacket. Here’s your 
robot decorated room, the pattern you chose 
from the catalog’s boy section, your Lego 
Jedi Starfighter and your black Nintendo. 
Put it in your holster. 

Everywhere you go, your disguises reek of 
testosterone. On EBay I auctioned off your 
sisters’ dresses — like you asked me to. In 
the basement I dug up your sisters’ Barbies 
and stuffed them in the trash. Along with 
Barbie’s Mustang, Barbie’s Fashion Fever 
Store, and her pal, Polly Pocket. Polly 
Pocket and her Polly Mall, her Polly World, 
her Polly Mansion. When Barbie’s Three 
Story Townhouse didn’t fit in the three-ply 
yard-size Hefty garbage bag I grabbed your 
father’s hammer and smashed it against the 
concrete floor. Then it fit. 

It would’ve been worse if you’d ended up 
like those other kinds of girls I know. Sour 
girls, girls that look sweet but taste bitter, 
girls who chew gum with their mouths 
aghast. Girls that twizzle under pressure but 
then burst into the scene like stars. Kit-Katty 
girls, S & M’s, Smarties and girl Nerds. 
Girls who snicker at boys but skittle at their 
touch. Girls who’ve been caramelized under 
high pressure, hardened into brittle toffee, 
pounded into taffy, powdered by the fist 
who when jelly in the belly, don’t let the gun 
drop – which gets them locked up for life 
saved behind bars. 

I hope if I rant and vent like this, I’ll get with 
the program. I’ve learned to see you, to talk 
to you without your pronoun, without the tail 
end to your name, without a role expectation. 
I’ve learned to let you be, to advocate at your 
school, to befriend other boys’ mothers, to pro- 
vide ultimatums to my mother, to blackmail your 
father’s mother, to threaten your father with 
divorce, and to tell my sister-in-law to fuck off. 
It’s me, love, I’ve learned to be your mother.