Punk is everything. Punk is nothing. Punk is knowing who you are. Punk is being who you are. Punk is outside the box. Punk is its own box. Punk is owning the box. Punk is owning who you are.
Punk is being a complete person, even when you feel incomplete.
Punk is Woody Guthrie. Punk is Bob Dylan. Punk is Patti Smith, Jesus Christ, and your Grandma too.
Punks exists to say the things you want to say, but never knew how to express properly.
Punk is politics. Punk is nonsense. Punk is music and Punk is poetry. Punk is the most positive designation I can give to thee (other than Freak).
Queers are Punks.
Queens are Punks.
Queen is Punk.
Are you starting to get it yet?
If you are, you’re a Punk.
Am I a Punk? Hell yeah. Even though I didn’t get turned onto it till late in life, man.
But I’m an incomplete person, owning who I am. Unafraid and unabashed to say, I don’t always know who I am. I got feelings and fears, and I know they are true. But they aren’t the whole Truth. They aren’t the big Truth. They are small pieces of the complete picture; my surface-level ideas on what it means to be Punk.
I know Punks when I see them. I’ve worked with them. I’ve watched them perform. I’ve heard them take on names like Kat Fox, Crimson Clear, and Poop Fairy. I’ve been fortunate, in moments, to witness their fearless nature as they used their potential to lay their fears on front street, stand up, and elevate Others to the level of Punk.
It’s a noble designation.
It’s an honorable designation.
And, as Tim Armstrong wrote, “Honor is All We Know.”
Being Punk is an Honor.