Love poems for gay men

Leave Me Alone

Heartbreak Poem by Teens

Hi. My name is Iain, and I am sixteen years old. This is the first poem I've ever written. It is about my feelings toward a guy in my school and how I can never possess him because he is straight. I want to not feel this way about him, but I can't help it, so it's like an sentimental war raging inside my chest. This was my way of expressing it.

Featured Shared Story

If I had found this poem on my notes, I would've thought I had written it sometime. The poem exactly explains my current situation. I want him and need him since I have seen him. The smile on

Read conclude story

Share your story! (19)

Published by Family Friend Poems January with permission of the Author.

I watch you.
I want you.
I need you.
You are forbidden.

I crave your touch.
I yearn for your lips.
You don't want me.
So why do you stay?

I see you.
Everyone sees you.
I wish you.
NO,
I yearn these feelings
to lea

Love is love… is love. But that doesn’t mean “love” means or feels the same every time you trial it. Celebrating LGBTQIA+ love means acknowledging all the unlike types of feelings we have, whether it’s romantic devote for a spouse, love for our community, love for ourselves or even love for a specific place. These poems celebrate gay love, whether that love is lovely, bittersweet or somewhere in between.

When You’re Feeling Wildly, Exuberantly in Love, Study Andrea Gibson’s Love Poem.

Love Poem contains all the agony and ecstasy of early love. From Gibson’s epically quixotic declaration, “You are the moon when it blooms for the very first time” to their brutally honest line, “It’s true when we argue you make me wanna rip off my nose, bone and all,” this poem celebrates both the highs and lows of a giddy new love affair.

When You’re Feeling Grateful for Your Companion, Read June Jordan’s Poem for My Love.

This poem tells the sweet story of two lovers, safe inside and marveling at their relationship:

I am amazed by peace

It is this possibility of you

asleep

and b

Mirrored Angels

I think he's there but
I can't be sure.
Can anyone be sure

Of themselves,
Or can they
Just lie convincingly

Next to one another,
Two boys lay on their chests
Fingers blooming out towards

The Others. No contact
Their heads averted
They lie, as mirrored angels

Unshifting, so they don't spill blood
From their backs
On the snow

It's easier to be proximate someone
If you don't have to look.
You don't have to feel

Blue snow on your wound
Or red hands in yours
Or the relief that feels red-black

Like the color of your eyelids.
closing my eyes
And looking makes me feel

The closest I can to seeing inside
My mind, and it's all bouncing dots
And swirling pink-blue-red-black-white.

I want to be a flower
Because they don't have eyes
To close. I want to be a flower

Because they need only be open
To the sky, and the sky loves them.
The sky rains when they are closed and

When they are blooming, the sky
Shines light through their petals
And says,

I love the way you glow.

Two people that love each other but acquire both made mistakes hurting the other

#love#heartbreak#

This is my gay poem

My poem about pride

And about finally coming out to my parents after 23 years

But you know some news falls on cotton-filled ears

Never bothering to seek where they got the cotton from.

And I haven’t seen my father since then

And I am holding on to the not many memories where I was happy at home

Where I didn’t want to leave

Where I didn’t wish for to die

I was still a child the first time they said they hate gay people

I was 11 when I first remember thinking they were right.

And every year after I hid deeper and deeper until I was drowning

Until my lungs were screaming out for air

And I never looked back

Or at least I could never go back

But sometimes I miss a endearing scarf or hat I left in that closet and have to convince myself I am greater off without them

No matter how safe they made me feel

Or how passionate the fabric

But I shattered that closet

It doesn’t exist

I threw a brick through its doors

And Martha P. Johnson did it first

And we will continue to throw bricks

Until they finally stop killing us

Until we stop counting