I Probirth

I was born—
not into clarity,
but into constellations of rupture.
At best,
a broken hallelujah
echoed from dressing room mirrors
and bearded mouths steeped in coffee and nicotine—
holy in imperfection,
gorgeous in its grief.

II Weaponized Santuary

Then came the ones
who weaponized my safe havens
with glittered homophobia
and sermons of Christ-like bigotry,
speaking in tongues.

They called me a monster,
a mistake.
Unholy.

Foster care was deemed a fitting place—
not love,
certainly not unconditional.

With cold, vacant eyes,
they looked through me and said:
“You must be lost.
No, really.
Get lost.

You don’t belong here.
Or there.
You don’t fit anywhere."

They called it lost.
I called it transformation.
So a Lost Boy I became.

III Survival Mode

During my first outing,
I leaned hard into survival.
In the wilderness,
I tried to fabricate a narrative—
but my story ignored plot points,
spilling its tea
in dressing rooms,
on sidewalks,
during late-night walks
through deep purple land minds

I tried to quiet the voices
just to hear the whispers:

It’s okay to stay.
Love can be chosen—
long before I knew how to choose myself.

IV The Performance of Pain

Survival mode didn’t allow introspection,
but it allowed damn good theatre.

I started to process pain
I didn’t know I had
while lip-syncing
in plastic see-through raincoats,
spewing contradictions
and dancing for my dear life.

V Baring Witness

Through the smoke of the battlefields—
she appeared.

My soul sister.
My lighthouse.

She didn’t fix me.
She witnessed me.

Forty years later,
she still claps from the wings.

She is why I know how to stay.

VI Before Truth

My story still couldn’t find its truth.
It erupted—
too loud,
too lustful,
too sure of itself.

I wasn’t bleeding mythic symbols yet—
I was charming, talented,
an egotistical loudmouth
who mistook sex for self-worth
and charisma for safety.

I couldn’t be wrong
because I couldn’t be real.

I lived inside a soft apocalypse—
with trauma—
the kind that hides its name,
coiled in the walls
of a studio flat
where my heart stalked my head
like mythic beasts caged together.

Grief named me:
a tsunami disguised as silence.
My lover left in the waves.
My family fled the wreckage—
the unnatural disaster
they claimed was me.
Monster. Mistake.
Unraveled in daylight.

I could no longer outrun,
outperform,
or outlive the truth.

My heart collapsed
into itself—
a grief implosion,
small
and catastrophic.

So, I chose death.

VII Metamorphosis

I died.
Not with fanfare,
but in the quiet drowning—
a soul submerged
beneath loss,
beneath abandonment’s leviathan
and betrayal’s behemoth,
beneath love undone
and the echo of “You don’t belong.”

Until I forgot whose mouth
had first said it.

In that warm, dark silence,
I began again.

Not reborn clean—
but jagged.

Buried in Basquiat’s grave,
I rose smeared in my own paints,
saturated in neon grief,
tenderness too loud to ignore.

Heartbreak cracked the core of me,
scattering emotional fallout
across every memory,
every belief.

VIII Into the Wilderness

I was reborn.

Reborn in the wilderness
Reborn not new—
but truer.

I didn’t find belonging.
I built it—

from acid-dripped affirmations
and the fierce hugs of chosen family.

I lost my way,
but found my depth.

Lost is just the prelude to knowing.

I’m not trying to be found.
I’m trying to be felt.

My voice was a wound
that learned to sing.

Storytelling became my favorite coping mechanism.
Telling my story
is how I reclaim my name.

Wil Powers

I write to feel seen.
I perform to belong.

I reach out—
not to be held,
but to hold.

Connection is how I remember I exist.

I feel you
because I feel me.

Empathy isn’t passive.
My heart opens
for every version of you.

IV Welcome to the Collective

Don’t try to fit in.
Choose to belong instead.

Found family isn’t found—
it’s built
in heartbreaks
and ghost stories.

Belonging starts
where silence ends.

This site—this page—this invocation—
isn’t just mine anymore.
It’s yours.

A sanctuary for softness.
A temple for truth-tellers
and Tender Revolutionaries.

Come in.

If you’re queer and questioning,
if you feel too much or not enough,
if your hallelujah is cracked but still ringing—
you are home.

We listen here.
We see you.
We survive—
No.
We live this together.

X REBELS with a CAUSE

In an act of utter defiance,
be unapologetically punk rock.

Write your story.
Share your ache.
Make art of your sacred wreckage.

Our stories don’t and won’t fit the mold—
so we will break the motherfuckers
and redefine them.

We are the Lost Boy Collective.
We are the glitter gospel.
We are still becoming.

We link. We listen.
We live more softly together.

And in spaces built with empathy—
we learned how to stay.

How to Share Your Echo on The Wall of Becoming

1. 1. Click the “+” button to create a new post in the bottom right side of your screen.

   2. In your post:

   Title: Add your name or alias.

   Text: Share a short poem, a short piece of writing, a truth, or affirmation.

   Choose one archetype to include in your message (defined at the bottom of this post):

   a.       Star of Becoming

   b.      Flame of Rebellion

   c.       Eye of Memory

   d.      Sigil of Healing

   Add your creative role (Poet, Painter, Ritualist, Seeker…)

   3. Upload a sketch, photo, or symbol that represents your echo

   4. Optional Ritual:

   I mark this wall with memory.
   I speak what was silenced.
   I become what I was meant to remember.

   5. Click “Publish” to add your post to the wall.

ARCHETYPE DEFINITONS:

🌟 Star of Becoming

Archetype of transformation, emergence, and self-reclamation.
This symbol represents those in the midst of change—shedding old skins, stepping into new truths. It’s the light that flickers in the dark, the moment before flight.

You are not finished. You are unfolding.

🔥 Flame of Rebellion

Archetype of resistance, truth-telling, and sacred defiance.
This is for the ones who speak what must be spoken, who create from rupture, who refuse erasure. The flame doesn’t destroy—it illuminates.

Your voice is the match. Your art is the fire.

👁️ Eye of Memory

Archetype of remembrance, lineage, and ancestral echo.
This symbol honors those who carry stories—personal, collective, inherited. It’s the gaze that sees backward and forward, holding grief and grace in equal measure.

You remember so we can become.

🌀 Sigil of Healing

Archetype of restoration, ritual, and sacred repair.
This is for the artists who create from wounds, who turn pain into pigment, who make ceremony from survival. Healing here is not passive—it’s revolutionary.

Your scar is a spell. Your echo is medicine.

What part of yourself did you have to let go of to grow into who you are now?

Who or what has been your lighthouse in moments of darkness?

What is one thing you’ve created—tangible or intangible—that you’re proud of?

If you could leave one word or phrase for someone else on the Wall of Becoming, what would it be and why?"