Allesha Eman
Allesha Eman
2 days ago

When they saw her walking on the streets,
They saw oppression, dehumanization, and inequality.
Whilst they oppressed her with their vision
She wore her cape of grace, her drapes of black chiffon
Which also covered her face
free from all the judgment regarding beauty and ideals

the world was threatened by her walk
Although her posture was humble
She still walked with queen like grace
For she was super women and her Abaya was her cape
Her Niqaab was her shield form the worlds disgrace
And her Hijab was the crown she wore with all her grace
And she was a true woman
A woman oppressed not by her faith
But by society's obligations
She IS a woman empowered,
Empowered by her faith.

#truth   #sad   #vs   #oppression   #culture   #women   #modesty   #rights   #covering   #hijab  
Mr Trismegistus
Mr Trismegistus
6 days ago

Private prisons, a brand new cup;
Now some reasons to fill 'em up.

When the prison is a profitable place,
Slaves'll be marched to fill the space.

Ryan V
6 days ago

My country ''tis a fee, land of costly liberty. Home lacking bravery while men maintain slavery but nickname it economy establishing a laborious lobotomy and call it remedy while using it towards social hegemony. Land where justice is blind cept to class and color line, federally funded crack cocaine genocide, slyly twisting the rhetoric blaming the heroin epidemic for mass incarceration invadin the lives of those too poor to be patients. private prisons profiting on the violation of rights by correctional castration removing voices stripping votes and choices rehabilitating via dehumanization chain gang gathered cop shot corpses litter the monstropolis and time the enemy we ain't  as fast as the clock is tick tick bang there goes the next kid would've rather he'd been arrested but so it goes for those below so it goes unnoticed no mass hysteria so it goes when you're made in America.

it's a strange occurrence
hearing sirens pulsate through the rough brick walls of the silent still sanctuary on sunday mornings
every sunday morning for as long as i can remember

the service doesn't stop and the sermon doesn't stop
but i can't help but wonder what would happen if they did
what would happen if we stopped worrying about our lives and started worrying about theirs - those who have been affected by that shrill call
every sunday morning for as long as i can remember

why is it that we receive the honor of being safe inside when there are people suffering outside
how do we say a prayer for healing but go about our daily lives not thinking about what we hear right outside our windows
every sunday morning for as long as i can remember

perhaps some people do let the sound interrupt their routine thoughts
are those the lucky few who are called angels?
it should't be their job to save the world
if we let the warning resonate through our minds and not just through the rough brick walls then maybe sirens wouldn't be heard
every sunday morning for as long as i can remember

words drenched in love
for some
a dangerous declaration

her disheveled heart
speaks only after dark
whispering over the phone
stuttering syllables stitch
stories to shadows of secrecy

let’s strike a comparison:

pen on paper
for me
a novelty
pen on paper
for her
a crime

to think out loud
to read you the soft words
of my beating heart
i am praised and applauded

to think out loud
to read you the strangled words
of her bleeding heart
she is beaten and taunted

why may I write with freedom
while she writes with fear?

why may i be viciously vocal
while she is sold into
solemn silence?

i can
recite
sing
rant
slam
without being told
i need the permission of a man

but she can’t
stand
speak
swear
share
lips sewn shut with threats
hands tied tight with rules
the men shout:
stop
shut up
be quiet
do what your told
fit the good wife mould

her father competes for the
most submissive
dull daughter
and so he lies—

“my daughter is a
‘good girl’
uneducated
no interest in
writing
reading
or poetry.
she never desired
to go to school”

accused of lovers and affairs
her verses spat upon
her lines snickered at
her brothers rip up her notebooks
they rip up a literary soul printed on
pages doused in tears

there she is
on the edge of an arranged marriage
risking death to have her two-lines heard  
they call it a landai
can’t you hear her
voice crying out
to be validated
verified
valued

here I am
on the edge of a couch
binge watching Netflix to avoid what matters
they call it procrastination
you know me too well
a millennial pretending
to not have time to produce
the littlest of letters
smallest of sounds

granted poetic privilege
i often throw it away  
the loud whispers of the NGO’s
scratch at my door—

“what a waste!
  what a waste!
  the basic human right
  she dies for
  sadly is the right
  you take for granted”

she’s on the other side of the world
but i feel her pain prick at my heart
while i try to do her story justice

she lit herself on fire
dying for love
a flame of rebellion
a martyr to the little girls
desperately wanting to feel
the weight of
a pen in their hand

she speaks because she has to
i speak because i can

she says more even when it means
she’ll suffer

i say less even when it means
she’ll continue to suffer silently

i’ll never realize
what i have until i lose it

she knew from day one
she didn’t have freedom
but that she would fight for it
until her last breath.

Yes, it's International Women's Day. Let's make a big deal about it.

This original poem, written in 2015 and re-edited since then, is inspired by a New York Times article, “Why Afghan Women Risk Death to Write Poetry.” I was completely torn when I first read it, as I never knew writing about love and being creative, for many women, had them abused and killed. I've had numerous journals full of stories, read aloud my poems to a 100+ audience; I couldn't believe the severe oppression and lack of free speech that was embedded in the lives of Afghan women. This poem stems from the comparison of women's rights based on cultural differences.

Mirman Baheer, Afghanstian’s largest women’s literary society works to liberating these women that have for so long been silenced. I encourage you to take time and read the article below, let's get real about change.  #beboldforchange

www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/magazine/why-afghan-women-risk-death-to-write-poetry.html?_r=0
Samantha
Samantha
Jan 25

We build walls of insecurities out of sand.
Mixed with the grains of every desire wanted.
This child shoveling sand with plastic heart beats, & hollow rhythms, attempts to utter a Simple hello.
Hello, to the true Human condition.
This hello is not what I want.
But the dream, a pixelated picture, not yet complete, floats along bending rivers of doubt, & opportunity. Longing to become whole..
To become whole with the freedom, I deserve.
Yet my anxieties beckon me.
My elders of the court, surrounding, judgement passing, of what true pain means.
Are we all not children?
Discovering that our roots were slowly embedded with and from the Scorned children, before us.
By our oppressions and automated systems, that have created the demons in our closets, & The monsters underneath our beds.
Awaiting for the Court, to hand us our fates..
These Elders, watch my aspirated expression, turning me blue with Rage.
"Don't speak out.
For the Foundation of this Very Court, was built on the Silence of Hushed lambs."
The surrender to appointed Society, has tainted the Fine woven threads of our wool, giving no Remorse for the Unfed child's belly.
An insatiable hunger to scream, "We have a voice!!"
We are a stairway of Bodies, rising our Oppressors, higher than our own souls.
Though we should fly freely among those un-chained,
We are a whisper, fighting against the forceful winds, who claimed Democracy.
If we are equals, why must we not Speak?
Why In a Valley littered with deaf ears, and blind hearts, can we only hear our elders sing...
With liberty, and Justice for all.

#sad   #oppression   #preach  

This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, yet there are people trapped in closets because the monsters are on the other side and the darkness has become too comforting at this point; the face of death has become too beautiful to want to turn away. We are hidden, dancing around the idea of being hung as perfectly as that shirt that was “too gay”; planning our proposal to the Grim Reaper because, at this point, he is the only man who can “turn us straight”. We’re rolling out our blueprints and studying the structure of surviving instead of accepting that we’re different and actually living. The pride that used to live in us died a long time ago, maybe around the same time we were in the closet writing our suicide notes; for others, it was the day they were calling their loved ones for final words before their pulse was devoured by the hurricane.

This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, yet it was built off blacks and Native Americans forced into captivity; sold and sent off into slavery. The basis of this country is “freedom”, but… I’m still trying to find the point in time when we practiced what we preached, um - have you heard the joke about the Annoying Orange? He was elected president. No, wait, I think it was actually part of a horror movie. I’m sorry, was that racist? Because there are people on twitter who rant about how “REVERSE RACISM DOES EXIST” and “WHITE OPPRESSION”, now please don’t get offended, but it’s 2017 and the true founders of these divided, yet technically united, states are being held at gunpoint simply for being born that way. Just when we thought the crackling of our spines was enough to run the white boys away, they had to send their dads in to drop charges labeled “thief”, “thug”, and “felon” on our shoulders until they crushed our will to live. Now don’t have hope on justice for that is nothing but a fairy tale. If you haven’t already realized, the dragon of their arrogance grows the more they see us fail.

This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, ...but we forgot to include women in the subtext. Did I say “we”? I’m sorry. I meant HE, and not HE as in God who created you and me, but HE as in the Annoying Orange and every Arrogant Coconut elected to run this country. Apparently, we must conform to their manly mentality, their barbaric way of living because

“Women are too emotional”

“She’s probably PMSing”

But tell a guy he throws like a girl and watch his estrogen crawl from the deepest corners of his eye sockets as he runs away; their faces flushed with shame… because being feminine is something to be ashamed about. Throwing like a girl is offensive. Losing to your girlfriend in 2k is not Ok.
“You must obey me” they say.

“You belong in the kitchen”

And all we knew to say was “ok”.

You see, I’m tired of being tamed by men and am regurgitating all these false allegations.

I will not stop eating chocolate cake to please you. I love chocolate cake. It pleases me.

I will not watch my weight to protect your pride. Loving my weight is my pride.

I will not do squats because you want to post a picture of me on Instagram under hashtag thicc. I hate exercising. It’s exhausting.

I will only stop eating chocolate cake when I start to break out in places I shouldn’t.

I will only watch my weight when my doctor tells me I will die otherwise.

I will only do squats when I want to check myself out in my new bikini in the summertime.

This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, but it’s difficult to get the message across without learning the word “respect”.

You. Heterosexual judging me. Respect our various identities.
You. Caucasian individual. Acknowledge and respect our black history.
You. Cisgender male oppressing my womanhood. Respect your own mother.
You. Liberal teen defending your right to believe. Respect the worn out Cheeto puff.

And you will see…

Maybe one day we will know a free America.

Mind your manners
Mind how you speak
Mind the hemline of your dress,
         and the curves of your breasts
Mind your business
Mind your make-up
Mind your desires
Mind your men,
                 because don’t you know that
                 ‘behind every great man lies a woman’?
Mind your mind,
          for your thoughts even,
                  are too risky for our youth
Mind your Truth
Mind your Self
Mind your entire beautiful Being,
           but please
                   for the love of God,
don’t mind this when we’re in bed

--PY

I’m from Poughkeepsie
I’m from a family of a mother, a step-dad, a step-brother, and a younger brother
I’m from a big white house with a porch  and a garden
But I’m not from happiness.

I’m from sadness
I’m from anger
I’m from disappointment
And I’m from fear.

I’m from going to school with hand prints on my face and bruises on my body
I’m from oppression
I’m from thinking it was okay.

Later I’m from stress
I’m from anxiety of messing up even slightly
I’m from rape and other sexual abuse
I’m from hiding and staying quiet
I’m from depression and crying myself to sleep
I’m from self-harm and attempted suicide
I’m from self-hatred and disgust

Thank god I’m not there anymore.

Today I’m from a new beginning
I’m from recovery
I’m from a higher self-esteem and contentment
I’m from actually being okay
I’m from being me
I refuse to ever go back.

Your remarks have been censored!
Your remarks have been banned!
Your remarks have been erased from the official records!
Do you remember
What you said?

 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment