Read the stories. Feel the grit. Come as you are
New drops weekly from Adam Rye: queer country confessions, essays, community dispatches, and bold baritone verses.
This is where I write it like I lived it: loud, femme, country-soft, and fully uncloseted.
Writing about church trauma, queer joy, bad dates, chosen family, neurodivergent play, and the long road to being okay.
It is all real. It is all mine. And if you have ever felt like too much or not enough, maybe it is a little yours too.
Raw, healing, messy, and divine in the way I say so.
Carnival of Community
A poem about growing up in a small Illinois town, joining a pray-away-the-gay church, moving to Florida, and finding queer joy through friendship, sports, and stubborn resilience.
This Is What Free Feels Like
Four years post-divorce, I finally know how freedom feels in my body. This poem is for every queer soul learning to breathe, rest, and bloom exactly as they are.
Not Too Much
They called me too much. I call it being fully alive.
This poem is for every queer, neurodivergent soul who blooms too bright for the boxes they were given.
Still Here
I’ve got poems now. And a mustache that makes children stare. And a mullet that has seen more healing than your whole church retreat.
Whom Shall I Fear?
A queer reckoning in verse — challenging false fears, political hypocrisy, and evangelical harm. This poem fights back with truth, sass, and spark.
I Thought I Was Healed
I raised my hands like that would fix it. Worship team, front row, graphic‑tee collection on display—My Bad under the apple bite, retro puns plastered across my chest, sweating out the gay in every seam.
My Body, As It Is — A Video Collage of Real Life
A fast-cut, queer music video collage filmed across Saint Pete. This isn’t a traditional music video—it’s a vertical heartbeat. A body in motion, raw and radiant.
To the Healers Who Never Healed Me
For the altar calls. The prayer circles. The hands pressed heavy on my back like they were trying to pin me to the faith.
This poem is for every queer kid told to close their eyes and wait for God to fix them. You're not broken. You never needed their altar.
the chats, the chats, the chats
Ever been left on read after opening your heart in the DMs? This isn’t a love story — it’s a callout, a boundary, and a whole damn poem for the ghosted gays, the slow fade, and the ones who never showed up.