They call me *****
Ching chong expecting me to sing along to the bing bongs of Christmas.
Christening myself into white culture.
As they tried the ***** and native American,
Now Asian.
They call me a *****
a man with tools.
Shovel, pick axe, and hammer.
Digging for gold but also watching my head,
For the white man’s jealous, silver bullet.
They call me *****
a man with dignity in another’s land.
With metal and not a whip in my hands.
Building a future for them,
Model minority for them alone.
They call me *****
Silent, physically weak, and emasculated,
but silenced in a country that is meek and of no value,
Where the colors red, white, and blue mean more than your color,
(Where) God Bless(es) the United States of America.
Maybe I am a *****
Crawling in mud and sleeping with pigs,
A Feminine man finding strength in gambling,
Drinking liquor looking red,
Chinks ******* white animals for fetish,
Fool to English when although they cannot speak more than English themselves.
Yes, English, a borrowed language they call their own.
To slur relentlessly with a white hood of superiority.
I see no future without fury from my culture,
Hated and euphemized without limitation,
Hath hell come down on them now.
Still I am a *****
With a face yellow and a soul chicken,
Clucking around with little thought or agenda,
for the white people and only the white people,
alongside the negroes and native Americans.
Hurt by this country but never broken.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 2:29 PM UTC
the clouds over pennsylvania
soft, fluffy, and turbulent in nature
yyed with pink and scathed with orange
inspired true life unto my soul
for if I were to die at that very moment
i would with the warmest contentment
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
sitting in perpetual paradise
yet yearning deeply for more
making existence ephemeral
and my times desires.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
i pulled the trigger
leaving sonic staccatos
and clouds of gun smoke.
silencing all unheard screams
with the tyranny of moral men.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
her presence crescendoed
a wind strumming sawgrass.
rustling into symphony
a hot summer melody.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
superfluous really,
my insatiable pursuit of ecstasy
and ruminations of slaughter
only to find my ferality
alone in introspective cacophony
waiting and waiting for prey.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:35 PM UTC
fine ferret fur gently glides
gulped pigments plummet
down down down
now filthy floor
no more
no more
no.
i need a new hobby.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
wind brushed my neck,
and down my spine,
briefly with a kiss.
i fell.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC