Shallow - Hello Poetry

Your flag Your pride Your accent and voice The way you dress The way you greet others Your money Your hair Your face Your tongue and the language it speaks How you trip over words Of a language which isn’t yours Assimilate. But not too much We already know your name And your story All by one look All before you’re granted a chance to speak Our children will stare at the gringa who passes Whose tongue flicks with an anglicized mark And crowds will glare with eyes of disgust And shield our children from the alien before us But we will also stop you in our streets to speak with you But not because we care what you have to say Rather because we want to practice your language And make it ours So we may criticize you in a way you’ll understand But you’re here to study And here to learn And we want your money but not you in our schools You take classes with your own kind And speak with your own kind And suffer with your own kind We try to keep you all contained. You can try to speak Castellano Or learn how we think But it doesn’t matter what you do Every action is already explained By the fact you’re a foreigner. Where do you come from? You couldn’t tell she’s American By her flag, her pride, her accent and voice? Your country seems like a different planet Are you sure you came by plane? Alien. Are you an alien person? But it isn’t a question of your place of origin It is of your humanity. Are you an alien person? Foreign, Foreign, Foreigner. Your name is too American Write it like this. Never mind that, it is too hard to say. Here is a new one. You only have one surname. What did you do to disgrace your mother? Come observe a new culture, never participating. But we will observe you from across the Atlantic. And your semi-barbaric ways Because we know if the choice was ours We’d house the lady And you the tiger. Come to our country where we may serve you poisoned fruit And send you to our prison-hospitals Where you will stay in your cell until yellow swims around your ankles And you cry loud enough to be an annoyance And when your bill arrives, te haremos confundido por Castellano Never offering you el lujo a entender Never offering ni paz ni amistad. But you chose to come here You cannot be surprised to you pay thousands to clean your blood off our floors When you chose to spread your enslavement and war. You are all so violent to spill so much blood So barbaric. Who will believe you if you say you don’t fight? We see the news of you failing to protect your children And how Oedipus permeates your state of mind And the permanence of a confederacy keen on killing Kenyans You walk your streets ready to spill your brother’s blood And the blood of a million foreigners as you have done before You circumcise your sons the moment they cry And just stop there? Why not cut off the rest So your kind may never reproduce? And your brother may live in awe of you But we never enslaved nor conquered Nor cut the hands or feet of any right-doer Nor colonized, evangelized, or spoke a wrong word We stayed neutral in war, fighting civil for the civil Our history is filled with the taste of sweet sugar Curated by the hands of people who adored us Violence is all too western And by that we mean American. You chose to abandon your land To study here And to learn here To hunt for our money and spend it on alcohol So you may drunkenly stumble with your own kind And speak with your own kind And suffer with your own kind And play the most dangerous game A gamble with your money A gamble with the law A gamble with your freedom All contained in a troublesome roulette Because here the game is always rigged against you. You are giants Coarse, crude, and caustic Who infect every perfect thing you touch Turning our fine shores to gravel lots Spitting oil in our seas And turning our precious wine to water All for the sake of bettering your newborn nation Which ***** on the *** of its European predecessors Wipe your streets with the blood of your children And the blood of your women And the blood of every barbarian who dares to hold a gun in the name of freedom And there will be no one left to sing your anthem We will eat you and your country alive And burn your body among our forgotten tyranny With the victims of our cultural dictatorship And your country will pay no mind And your death will be not so much as tragedy as a mere statistic. Because to you it is life and death. But to us it is a bet How long will the gringa last? Before xenophobia eats her alive And her last words fall victim to a false deafness Because this language should not be hers? Yes, this is a ballad to your loss The coming of a new era When the gringa hangs on her cross With the ashes of white and blue behind her As her blood spills red And she looks up to the stars As her guts spill out Striped with the acid of her nation And we will watch as she sells her guts to afford her surgeon In that country which pays her no mind In that country which sees her as meat to be hunted In that country which plays the most dangerous game In her country who wins the most dangerous game In her country who saved her life In her country who she calls home In her country who wants her home. And she will cry waving her bloodied flag Screaming “I’m American!” Because her heart lies in her imperfect land In her imperfect home With her imperfect people And she has an unfathomable love for her flag Stained with the blood of a million foreigners.

0

Oct 18, 2022

Oct 18, 2022 at 5:36 AM UTC

Shallow

WHAT MAKES YOU AMERICAN?

Your flag Your pride Your accent and voice The way you dress The way you greet others Your money Your hair Your face Your tongue and the language it speaks How you trip over words Of a language which isn’t yours Assimilate. But not too much We already know your name And your story All by one look All before you’re granted a chance to speak Our children will stare at the gringa who passes Whose tongue flicks with an anglicized mark And crowds will glare with eyes of disgust And shield our children from the alien before us But we will also stop you in our streets to speak with you But not because we care what you have to say Rather because we want to practice your language And make it ours So we may criticize you in a way you’ll understand But you’re here to study And here to learn And we want your money but not you in our schools You take classes with your own kind And speak with your own kind And suffer with your own kind We try to keep you all contained. You can try to speak Castellano Or learn how we think But it doesn’t matter what you do Every action is already explained By the fact you’re a foreigner. Where do you come from? You couldn’t tell she’s American By her flag, her pride, her accent and voice? Your country seems like a different planet Are you sure you came by plane? Alien. Are you an alien person? But it isn’t a question of your place of origin It is of your humanity. Are you an alien person? Foreign, Foreign, Foreigner. Your name is too American Write it like this. Never mind that, it is too hard to say. Here is a new one. You only have one surname. What did you do to disgrace your mother? Come observe a new culture, never participating. But we will observe you from across the Atlantic. And your semi-barbaric ways Because we know if the choice was ours We’d house the lady And you the tiger. Come to our country where we may serve you poisoned fruit And send you to our prison-hospitals Where you will stay in your cell until yellow swims around your ankles And you cry loud enough to be an annoyance And when your bill arrives, te haremos confundido por Castellano Never offering you el lujo a entender Never offering ni paz ni amistad. But you chose to come here You cannot be surprised to you pay thousands to clean your blood off our floors When you chose to spread your enslavement and war. You are all so violent to spill so much blood So barbaric. Who will believe you if you say you don’t fight? We see the news of you failing to protect your children And how Oedipus permeates your state of mind And the permanence of a confederacy keen on killing Kenyans You walk your streets ready to spill your brother’s blood And the blood of a million foreigners as you have done before You circumcise your sons the moment they cry And just stop there? Why not cut off the rest So your kind may never reproduce? And your brother may live in awe of you But we never enslaved nor conquered Nor cut the hands or feet of any right-doer Nor colonized, evangelized, or spoke a wrong word We stayed neutral in war, fighting civil for the civil Our history is filled with the taste of sweet sugar Curated by the hands of people who adored us Violence is all too western And by that we mean American. You chose to abandon your land To study here And to learn here To hunt for our money and spend it on alcohol So you may drunkenly stumble with your own kind And speak with your own kind And suffer with your own kind And play the most dangerous game A gamble with your money A gamble with the law A gamble with your freedom All contained in a troublesome roulette Because here the game is always rigged against you. You are giants Coarse, crude, and caustic Who infect every perfect thing you touch Turning our fine shores to gravel lots Spitting oil in our seas And turning our precious wine to water All for the sake of bettering your newborn nation Which ***** on the *** of its European predecessors Wipe your streets with the blood of your children And the blood of your women And the blood of every barbarian who dares to hold a gun in the name of freedom And there will be no one left to sing your anthem We will eat you and your country alive And burn your body among our forgotten tyranny With the victims of our cultural dictatorship And your country will pay no mind And your death will be not so much as tragedy as a mere statistic. Because to you it is life and death. But to us it is a bet How long will the gringa last? Before xenophobia eats her alive And her last words fall victim to a false deafness Because this language should not be hers? Yes, this is a ballad to your loss The coming of a new era When the gringa hangs on her cross With the ashes of white and blue behind her As her blood spills red And she looks up to the stars As her guts spill out Striped with the acid of her nation And we will watch as she sells her guts to afford her surgeon In that country which pays her no mind In that country which sees her as meat to be hunted In that country which plays the most dangerous game In her country who wins the most dangerous game In her country who saved her life In her country who she calls home In her country who wants her home. And she will cry waving her bloodied flag Screaming “I’m American!” Because her heart lies in her imperfect land In her imperfect home With her imperfect people And she has an unfathomable love for her flag Stained with the blood of a million foreigners.

153

When showtime comes the curtain will rise You'll prepare your face with cold blue eyes Together you're here With the quiet and queer And then you'll sing your own demise

0

Nov 4, 2019

Nov 4, 2019 at 11:11 AM UTC

Shallow

Life of a Theater Kid

When showtime comes the curtain will rise You'll prepare your face with cold blue eyes Together you're here With the quiet and queer And then you'll sing your own demise

5

Still I am here, confined in my prison of eroded leather and rusted coils. Oceans of yellow-gray fur glisten lifelessly around my tired, time-soaken feet. More shining dust leaps out per every passing moment, as if reaching for freedom, only to find itself grounded in a muddled swamp of suicide. Such is its existence. Such is mine. I know very little about the time I spent before Qualm. Such memories are forgotten. Then again, some memories are best left forgotten. In this room, time itself fades. It is a vault of dust, of which I will soon become. The dust waves to me sometimes. It swirls and scatters and dances in victory before it dooms itself to the inevitable. Alas, it seems gravity prefers a yellow-brown carpet. The drapes too. It seems I have forgotten the last time the carpet matched the drapes. There’s one window. I know not what lies on the outside of it. It is a place I don’t deem worthy. For what purpose does dust serve outside of these prison walls? The Boy comes every so often. Not that time matters. The clock-face has frowned and judged me as long as I remember. Its broken hand beats back and forth as if it were some melancholic metronome. The pounding heartbeat of the clock is halted only by The Boy. He is quite a curious boy. He doesn’t seem to age, though perhaps it hasn’t been quite long enough to tell. Or perhaps it is I who has simply forgotten what aging looks like. The Boy tells me tales of love, of a girl he has found. He spoils her. I once had a boy like him, but through my tranquil insanity, it seems he I have forgotten. I once held him, though. He was but a small child. A smooth, softly crowned head that radiated possibility. Yes, The Boy reminds me of mine own blood-kin. If Mine Own had lived to see him, what would he say? I have not a name for myself. I have long forgotten how to string letters together and what a sentence looks like. The Boy knows, though. For as long as I have seen him (which of course I know not), he has called me by a name that I have long forgotten the meaning of. The Boy is curious, indeed. The name he gives me is not the name as what they call me. It is warm, and sings of a tranquil flame and soft bed of which I have long forgotten. It is like a firefly of emotion in my corroded universe. The Boy’s handiwork is miraculous, I do say. The needle with which The Boy stitches letters is of ivory bane, and the thread of luminescent gold. The Boy is clever. He tells me tales of brains. Long ago (or perhaps within the hour) The Boy would tell me of studies. He would read me stories of glistening raindrops and heaven-bound sunflowers from a glossy green textbook, and would ask of me how numbers collided and combined. I would take his hand. It was soft. It was warm. It reminded me of my own blood-kin. What would Mine Own’s hand look like if he could come to see The Boy? It seems I have forgotten when The Boy’s ******* questions ended. Why did they stop? Why were there columns of water falling from his cheeks? Columns that supported none but a weary neck of childish ignorance. Columns that were polished by sandpaper. Columns that gleamed with a lifeless luster. Columns that were silent, yet spoke of nothing but demise. The Boy no longer tells me tales of brains. It seems I have forgotten the stories of mournful raindrops and hellbent sunflowers from the faded green textbook. He tells me tales of sorrows of a boy of an all-too familiar name. Of a boy who reminds me of Mine Own. No, in fact, The Boy says nothing. It is his columns that sing of Diego’s caterwaul. For what does The Boy mourn? Is it not his studies? Is it not his plentiful future? The Boy has but nothing to mourn. He touched my hand, I remember, and apologized (for some event I have seem to forgotten) through merciful cries and heart-wrenching sobs. My hand. My time-soaken hand, worn from years of labor at the needle. His hand is calloused. Was there a time where The Boy held the same hands as mine own blood-kin? Did they ever stare each other in the eye and wonder, "How would God see me?" I fear I must have misspoken, for when I mentioned this to The Boy, he fell. With an eloquent shame The Boy stitched the most beautifully morbid quilt of words. His voice echoed hymns of remorse within me. The Boy mourned. But for what? Is it not his own tears that collide with the yellow-gray dust? Is it not he that stands with a prideful cowardice above me, judging me with the same heartbroken eyes as the metronome clock-face? In fact, could it not be The Boy whose ashen tears litter this corroded floorboard? Could it be my own? For what am I mourning? The clock-face grants me an apathetic stare, or perhaps it is The Boy. Could it possibly be The Boy whom I am mourning? For if it is not him, then where have I come from?

0

Nov 4, 2019

Nov 4, 2019 at 11:01 AM UTC

Shallow

Elena

Still I am here, confined in my prison of eroded leather and rusted coils. Oceans of yellow-gray fur glisten lifelessly around my tired, time-soaken feet. More shining dust leaps out per every passing moment, as if reaching for freedom, only to find itself grounded in a muddled swamp of suicide. Such is its existence. Such is mine. I know very little about the time I spent before Qualm. Such memories are forgotten. Then again, some memories are best left forgotten. In this room, time itself fades. It is a vault of dust, of which I will soon become. The dust waves to me sometimes. It swirls and scatters and dances in victory before it dooms itself to the inevitable. Alas, it seems gravity prefers a yellow-brown carpet. The drapes too. It seems I have forgotten the last time the carpet matched the drapes. There’s one window. I know not what lies on the outside of it. It is a place I don’t deem worthy. For what purpose does dust serve outside of these prison walls? The Boy comes every so often. Not that time matters. The clock-face has frowned and judged me as long as I remember. Its broken hand beats back and forth as if it were some melancholic metronome. The pounding heartbeat of the clock is halted only by The Boy. He is quite a curious boy. He doesn’t seem to age, though perhaps it hasn’t been quite long enough to tell. Or perhaps it is I who has simply forgotten what aging looks like. The Boy tells me tales of love, of a girl he has found. He spoils her. I once had a boy like him, but through my tranquil insanity, it seems he I have forgotten. I once held him, though. He was but a small child. A smooth, softly crowned head that radiated possibility. Yes, The Boy reminds me of mine own blood-kin. If Mine Own had lived to see him, what would he say? I have not a name for myself. I have long forgotten how to string letters together and what a sentence looks like. The Boy knows, though. For as long as I have seen him (which of course I know not), he has called me by a name that I have long forgotten the meaning of. The Boy is curious, indeed. The name he gives me is not the name as what they call me. It is warm, and sings of a tranquil flame and soft bed of which I have long forgotten. It is like a firefly of emotion in my corroded universe. The Boy’s handiwork is miraculous, I do say. The needle with which The Boy stitches letters is of ivory bane, and the thread of luminescent gold. The Boy is clever. He tells me tales of brains. Long ago (or perhaps within the hour) The Boy would tell me of studies. He would read me stories of glistening raindrops and heaven-bound sunflowers from a glossy green textbook, and would ask of me how numbers collided and combined. I would take his hand. It was soft. It was warm. It reminded me of my own blood-kin. What would Mine Own’s hand look like if he could come to see The Boy? It seems I have forgotten when The Boy’s ******* questions ended. Why did they stop? Why were there columns of water falling from his cheeks? Columns that supported none but a weary neck of childish ignorance. Columns that were polished by sandpaper. Columns that gleamed with a lifeless luster. Columns that were silent, yet spoke of nothing but demise. The Boy no longer tells me tales of brains. It seems I have forgotten the stories of mournful raindrops and hellbent sunflowers from the faded green textbook. He tells me tales of sorrows of a boy of an all-too familiar name. Of a boy who reminds me of Mine Own. No, in fact, The Boy says nothing. It is his columns that sing of Diego’s caterwaul. For what does The Boy mourn? Is it not his studies? Is it not his plentiful future? The Boy has but nothing to mourn. He touched my hand, I remember, and apologized (for some event I have seem to forgotten) through merciful cries and heart-wrenching sobs. My hand. My time-soaken hand, worn from years of labor at the needle. His hand is calloused. Was there a time where The Boy held the same hands as mine own blood-kin? Did they ever stare each other in the eye and wonder, "How would God see me?" I fear I must have misspoken, for when I mentioned this to The Boy, he fell. With an eloquent shame The Boy stitched the most beautifully morbid quilt of words. His voice echoed hymns of remorse within me. The Boy mourned. But for what? Is it not his own tears that collide with the yellow-gray dust? Is it not he that stands with a prideful cowardice above me, judging me with the same heartbroken eyes as the metronome clock-face? In fact, could it not be The Boy whose ashen tears litter this corroded floorboard? Could it be my own? For what am I mourning? The clock-face grants me an apathetic stare, or perhaps it is The Boy. Could it possibly be The Boy whom I am mourning? For if it is not him, then where have I come from?

86

Could I tell you the ways in which you free me? Or sing to you a song of gold? Could a needle stitch a quilt of sorrow? Or keep our love from growing old?

0

Nov 4, 2019

Nov 4, 2019 at 10:56 AM UTC

Shallow

Diego

Could I tell you the ways in which you free me? Or sing to you a song of gold? Could a needle stitch a quilt of sorrow? Or keep our love from growing old?

4

Don't have pity on me Just because I may not be as beautiful as they Or as smart Or as talented Or have as many friends Or as much money Or that my anxiety kicks in around them Or that I wish to hide forever Or that my words are shallow and forgotten Or that my voice is drowned out in a sea of strangers And that I can't find myself anymore But don't have pity on me Because even though I am broken And my lips sing the sweet sound of blasphemy There remains one voice in the back of my mind Determination.

0

Feb 15, 2018

Feb 15, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC

Shallow

Don't Have Pity on Me.

Don't have pity on me Just because I may not be as beautiful as they Or as smart Or as talented Or have as many friends Or as much money Or that my anxiety kicks in around them Or that I wish to hide forever Or that my words are shallow and forgotten Or that my voice is drowned out in a sea of strangers And that I can't find myself anymore But don't have pity on me Because even though I am broken And my lips sing the sweet sound of blasphemy There remains one voice in the back of my mind Determination.

16

I don't think you understand Where it is I'm coming from Im not doing this for an English grade If i was I'd have perfect grammar im not doing this for you If i was i'd put more heart into my words i'd make you feel something pathos logos ethos no im not doing it for you or for him or for anyone else i do it for me i write for me im selfish i keep my words for myself i keep my words close to me so only i can feel their meaning so no at the end of the day i dont care if you feel any of my words i dont care if you detest them because they arent for you they are for me so no at the end of the day i dont think you understand.

0

Feb 14, 2018

Feb 14, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC

Shallow

i dont think you understand

I don't think you understand Where it is I'm coming from Im not doing this for an English grade If i was I'd have perfect grammar im not doing this for you If i was i'd put more heart into my words i'd make you feel something pathos logos ethos no im not doing it for you or for him or for anyone else i do it for me i write for me im selfish i keep my words for myself i keep my words close to me so only i can feel their meaning so no at the end of the day i dont care if you feel any of my words i dont care if you detest them because they arent for you they are for me so no at the end of the day i dont think you understand.

29

A single slat of a broken white picket fence Where the paint is old and faded And peeling But it reminds me of him And the time we spent together in the garden Growing our family tree A single frame of an abandoned photo gallery Where the glass is cracked and dust-caked And forsaken But it reminds me of him And the life we spent together before he was shipped off Caring for our family tree A single grave of a mass of forgotten soldiers Where their names are etched in stone And left But it reminds me of him And the lives he spared at the cost of his own Saving our family tree

0

Feb 12, 2018

Feb 12, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC

Shallow

Soliloquy of a Savior's Widow

A single slat of a broken white picket fence Where the paint is old and faded And peeling But it reminds me of him And the time we spent together in the garden Growing our family tree A single frame of an abandoned photo gallery Where the glass is cracked and dust-caked And forsaken But it reminds me of him And the life we spent together before he was shipped off Caring for our family tree A single grave of a mass of forgotten soldiers Where their names are etched in stone And left But it reminds me of him And the lives he spared at the cost of his own Saving our family tree

18

For what does the hummingbird weep? For the lost and forsaken souls? For the trepidation of mortals? For the embers of brisk passion? For the lashes of the night warden's whip? For the eternal brace of hurt? For the rantings of a madman? Or is what the hummingbird weeps for not of this nature? Could it be that the nature is of a nature from which nature's motherly embrace accepts? Could the hummingbird weep for the mild tranquility of said mother's embrace? Or for the warm glow of a homely flame? Or for the amber shine of dancing stones? Or for the soft brush of lovers' lips? Or for the faint cry of a newborn in the arms of such lovers? Or for the quiet persistence of solidarity? Or for the peace of acquainting serenity? Truly, the gentle tears of the hummingbird Are born of a passion true to mine own For these gentle tears of the hummingbird Are the same as the trails of ink that roll off my page

0

Feb 4, 2018

Feb 4, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC

Shallow

For What Does the Hummingbird Weep?

For what does the hummingbird weep? For the lost and forsaken souls? For the trepidation of mortals? For the embers of brisk passion? For the lashes of the night warden's whip? For the eternal brace of hurt? For the rantings of a madman? Or is what the hummingbird weeps for not of this nature? Could it be that the nature is of a nature from which nature's motherly embrace accepts? Could the hummingbird weep for the mild tranquility of said mother's embrace? Or for the warm glow of a homely flame? Or for the amber shine of dancing stones? Or for the soft brush of lovers' lips? Or for the faint cry of a newborn in the arms of such lovers? Or for the quiet persistence of solidarity? Or for the peace of acquainting serenity? Truly, the gentle tears of the hummingbird Are born of a passion true to mine own For these gentle tears of the hummingbird Are the same as the trails of ink that roll off my page

20

I once believed in a principle. That loss gave birth to something new I once believed in the dark. And that from the dark comes the light And light prevails, as I prevail But then why does the darkness return? But if the light has foresaken me then Has the light forsaken me? Why have you forsaken me? I once believed in the light. But the light failed me. The light gave birth to the flames The flames of my tragedy I hate the light. It left me here in this dark room. I once tried to find the light in this room, But they have all been unplugged.

0

Feb 4, 2018

Feb 4, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC

Shallow

What I Once Believed

I once believed in a principle. That loss gave birth to something new I once believed in the dark. And that from the dark comes the light And light prevails, as I prevail But then why does the darkness return? But if the light has foresaken me then Has the light forsaken me? Why have you forsaken me? I once believed in the light. But the light failed me. The light gave birth to the flames The flames of my tragedy I hate the light. It left me here in this dark room. I once tried to find the light in this room, But they have all been unplugged.

17

This unspoken vow- To be intercepted as, To be an illogical manner, For an illogical manner, As those with this manner so, Illogical-unforgettable But as fate commands And as mandated by God's breath To speak this final breath And tell- with- final- breath- The once-forgotten breath of a goodbye

0

Feb 4, 2018

Feb 4, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC

Shallow

The Runner

This unspoken vow- To be intercepted as, To be an illogical manner, For an illogical manner, As those with this manner so, Illogical-unforgettable But as fate commands And as mandated by God's breath To speak this final breath And tell- with- final- breath- The once-forgotten breath of a goodbye

11