vicspoetry - Hello Poetry

I spring awake at four a.m. Inscitvely clutching my phone to check on this kid’s petition “End the G.S.A.” The stress eats away at my sleep schedule As kids use one misunderstanding to take away my heart and soul A club I have inputted so much of myself into And funny enough “Vic” has three letters too I can’t sleep without their 300 signatures popping up behind my eyelids Comments being recited in the most repressed part of my insecurities 300 people who are against one of the clubs that saved me Saved my friends Saved so many people But there’s no room for a gay presence in Johnson County I spring awake at four a.m. Visions of the kid who keeps his gun in his car spring into my head My chest feels open already Have already bled out every ounce of pride in me What more harm can this kid do? Don’t they understand that by killing my spirit They’ve already made storage container for their bullets? I spring awake at four a.m. Because I do not let myself feel any other time Must stay strong to show that I am bigger than their hatred That I will go on So I refuse to let myself accept that ever-consuming fear that grows in my stomach It’s just indigestion Just me being another overdramatic queer kid Just everyday life that I must adjust to anyways I haven’t let myself feel since the incident occurred And the reactions poured in Drowning any sense of safety I used to feel I am choking on their unadulterated bigotry Gasping for air amongst the abundance of hatred And I’m not sure if I’ll ever breathe right again I spring awake at 4 a.m. Because I guess it’s the only time I feel safe anymore. School is a warzone for people like me And I can't hide in the crowd so easily When it's 1v300 So I'm desperately trying to hide behind my poetry I spring awake at 4 a.m. Because I don't know if my coping is working.

0

Apr 23, 2019

Apr 23, 2019 at 5:35 AM UTC

vicspoetry

4 a.m.

I spring awake at four a.m. Inscitvely clutching my phone to check on this kid’s petition “End the G.S.A.” The stress eats away at my sleep schedule As kids use one misunderstanding to take away my heart and soul A club I have inputted so much of myself into And funny enough “Vic” has three letters too I can’t sleep without their 300 signatures popping up behind my eyelids Comments being recited in the most repressed part of my insecurities 300 people who are against one of the clubs that saved me Saved my friends Saved so many people But there’s no room for a gay presence in Johnson County I spring awake at four a.m. Visions of the kid who keeps his gun in his car spring into my head My chest feels open already Have already bled out every ounce of pride in me What more harm can this kid do? Don’t they understand that by killing my spirit They’ve already made storage container for their bullets? I spring awake at four a.m. Because I do not let myself feel any other time Must stay strong to show that I am bigger than their hatred That I will go on So I refuse to let myself accept that ever-consuming fear that grows in my stomach It’s just indigestion Just me being another overdramatic queer kid Just everyday life that I must adjust to anyways I haven’t let myself feel since the incident occurred And the reactions poured in Drowning any sense of safety I used to feel I am choking on their unadulterated bigotry Gasping for air amongst the abundance of hatred And I’m not sure if I’ll ever breathe right again I spring awake at 4 a.m. Because I guess it’s the only time I feel safe anymore. School is a warzone for people like me And I can't hide in the crowd so easily When it's 1v300 So I'm desperately trying to hide behind my poetry I spring awake at 4 a.m. Because I don't know if my coping is working.

42

I wonder if the handcuffs were hereditary If we were fed through those chainlink umbilical cords Cut free and raised in disguised prison wards I think our birth certificates may have been the first warrants for our arrest. “Prison” was never a ***** word growing up It was tossed around in potato salads Mixed into our cole slaws And served to us like pecan pie “Prison” was not a ***** word It was just a place that family members ended up A Motel 6 specifically designed for Randolphs But then middle school started I was told that prison was for bad people I refused to believe that it was for bad people That my family shared rooms with criminals Talked with murderers and thieves over a metal dinner table That they were bad people. How are you supposed to feel when you’re told that your DNA is bad people? What are the charges against my biology? What crimes have my genetics committed against the court? Why are their laws written down in my ancestors' blood? I suppose prisons are for bad people But I don’t think you’re a bad person. I wish I could just believe you’re a bad person Since you’ve missed every warrant for communication Every request for appearance to the important dates of my life And I still want to pardon you from all charges Because you’re my big brother. I don’t think you’re a bad person It’s easier to think that the handcuffs were hereditary Than to believe that you ended up here on your own accord And I wish this was your first time But this isn’t my first time crying your name into a cinderblock wall Begging for the release of my bubba You always laughed when I called you bubba Said that I had a way with words yet I still couldn’t pronounce “big brother” I wish we got to know each other better We were separated through a cascade of different fathers and custody cases Names inked into legal paper before I even knew how to write it myself I haven’t talked to you in over a year now The only recent photos I have of you were taken at a police station But you only got arrested a month ago I can’t excuse the other eleven What’s your excuse from running from family? From the only sibling, you have left? These handcuffs are hereditary And every time they rubbed against your wrists, mine burn Every time they say your name in a court setting I hear it slamming into the sides of my skull Every time they shut the bars of your cell I am barred from another part of my soul And I wonder if my name even passes through your thoughts Cause when we mourned for our lost sister together You said it was us against the world So what’s the reason why you never returned my calls? You said we were the only family that we had left But as children of parents who didn’t care for them The word “family” didn’t exactly hold much importance We spent decades masquerading ourselves in the backgrounds of other people’s family photos Trying to pretend like we weren’t secondhand children We weren’t lost souls Yet when they recounted their old memories We could never fit ourselves into their homes I relied on you to keep out of trouble And raise your kids better than Mom ever raised us But my nieces and nephews are still shallowing down the word prison like it’s Tylenol You said I was the only family you could trust The way you’ve treated me and your kids show me what I should’ve known all along Whereas I had a way with your words You never understood their meaning Preferred silent smiles and passive-aggressive grunts towards showing emotion You don’t know what family means And I wonder if you can even feel my pain Yes, these handcuffs are hereditary And I feel your felonies burn in my veins Causing avalanches in despair to cover my brain Because what you don’t realize is as the youngest sibling I inherited everyone’s pain. Even your's.

0

Mar 3, 2019

Mar 3, 2019 at 4:32 PM UTC

vicspoetry

c.d.b.

I wonder if the handcuffs were hereditary If we were fed through those chainlink umbilical cords Cut free and raised in disguised prison wards I think our birth certificates may have been the first warrants for our arrest. “Prison” was never a ***** word growing up It was tossed around in potato salads Mixed into our cole slaws And served to us like pecan pie “Prison” was not a ***** word It was just a place that family members ended up A Motel 6 specifically designed for Randolphs But then middle school started I was told that prison was for bad people I refused to believe that it was for bad people That my family shared rooms with criminals Talked with murderers and thieves over a metal dinner table That they were bad people. How are you supposed to feel when you’re told that your DNA is bad people? What are the charges against my biology? What crimes have my genetics committed against the court? Why are their laws written down in my ancestors' blood? I suppose prisons are for bad people But I don’t think you’re a bad person. I wish I could just believe you’re a bad person Since you’ve missed every warrant for communication Every request for appearance to the important dates of my life And I still want to pardon you from all charges Because you’re my big brother. I don’t think you’re a bad person It’s easier to think that the handcuffs were hereditary Than to believe that you ended up here on your own accord And I wish this was your first time But this isn’t my first time crying your name into a cinderblock wall Begging for the release of my bubba You always laughed when I called you bubba Said that I had a way with words yet I still couldn’t pronounce “big brother” I wish we got to know each other better We were separated through a cascade of different fathers and custody cases Names inked into legal paper before I even knew how to write it myself I haven’t talked to you in over a year now The only recent photos I have of you were taken at a police station But you only got arrested a month ago I can’t excuse the other eleven What’s your excuse from running from family? From the only sibling, you have left? These handcuffs are hereditary And every time they rubbed against your wrists, mine burn Every time they say your name in a court setting I hear it slamming into the sides of my skull Every time they shut the bars of your cell I am barred from another part of my soul And I wonder if my name even passes through your thoughts Cause when we mourned for our lost sister together You said it was us against the world So what’s the reason why you never returned my calls? You said we were the only family that we had left But as children of parents who didn’t care for them The word “family” didn’t exactly hold much importance We spent decades masquerading ourselves in the backgrounds of other people’s family photos Trying to pretend like we weren’t secondhand children We weren’t lost souls Yet when they recounted their old memories We could never fit ourselves into their homes I relied on you to keep out of trouble And raise your kids better than Mom ever raised us But my nieces and nephews are still shallowing down the word prison like it’s Tylenol You said I was the only family you could trust The way you’ve treated me and your kids show me what I should’ve known all along Whereas I had a way with your words You never understood their meaning Preferred silent smiles and passive-aggressive grunts towards showing emotion You don’t know what family means And I wonder if you can even feel my pain Yes, these handcuffs are hereditary And I feel your felonies burn in my veins Causing avalanches in despair to cover my brain Because what you don’t realize is as the youngest sibling I inherited everyone’s pain. Even your's.

79

I wonder why I wish to speak to you again Despite the fact that it felt like you never listened You never listened. I complained about it constantly Wrote sonnets about your lack of focus on me Hoping you needed hearing aids so I could blame something else Instead of feeling unimportant You claim differently though. Said I built up a wall between us And now I realize that we weren’t only not on the same page But we were in completely different libraries Searching two different encyclopedias Trying to find a way to define our feelings I wonder whose anxiety made you feel boxed in Was it my obsessive need for structured plans that built you in Or your neglection of problems at hand that made them pile up? We made better construction partners than lovers Although that doesn’t mean much All the bridges we tried to build collapsed into our salty tears The home we wanted to make sunk into its foundation We should’ve stuck to classmates. And I as to move on from another failed relationship Building roads to a different city that needs to repair its infrastructure I wonder if you even deserved the sonnets I wrote.

0

Sep 12, 2018

Sep 12, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC

vicspoetry

Another One Over

I wonder why I wish to speak to you again Despite the fact that it felt like you never listened You never listened. I complained about it constantly Wrote sonnets about your lack of focus on me Hoping you needed hearing aids so I could blame something else Instead of feeling unimportant You claim differently though. Said I built up a wall between us And now I realize that we weren’t only not on the same page But we were in completely different libraries Searching two different encyclopedias Trying to find a way to define our feelings I wonder whose anxiety made you feel boxed in Was it my obsessive need for structured plans that built you in Or your neglection of problems at hand that made them pile up? We made better construction partners than lovers Although that doesn’t mean much All the bridges we tried to build collapsed into our salty tears The home we wanted to make sunk into its foundation We should’ve stuck to classmates. And I as to move on from another failed relationship Building roads to a different city that needs to repair its infrastructure I wonder if you even deserved the sonnets I wrote.

24

Today, I am falling. I don’t know where I am going to land Or how I started falling in the first place But I can feel my heart smashing against the ground Can feel rocks landing on my lungs I think it was a landslide. A storm of the false assumptions my brain makes Forcing me off of my mountainous high Some people say seasonal depression happens in the winter I think mine occurs during the hotter times When things stay still and dry But that one rainstorm can cause an entire mountain to slide Hands no longer moving on my school papers No longer babbling to teachers who see me as one of the hundreds of faces What do you do when you're only memorable cause of your tragic backstory? How do I become something more than a tale of depression? How do I stop falling? Today, I realized that I can never seem to stop my fall Try and grab on to the cliff or the rocks But they all slide with me. We fall down together Fading under heaps of mud that ***** our visions of life Becoming nothing more than another lost fossil. Bones under so much pressure we become fuel for successful people. Why can’t I be the successful person? Today, I wondered if there’s even a point in trying to stop the fall Every mountain I conquer collapses anyways. Becomes heaps of rocks and rubble for colonists to make skyscrapers on My methods of success are outdated For even the biggest mountains have been conquered before I am nothing more than an unidentifiable face That will be lost to the world shortly after her demise Only remembered for her tragic backstory and a too short life. They say in your senior year you should feel on top of the world But I have yet to climb to that overhyped sensation Instead, I am falling.

0

Jul 28, 2018

Jul 28, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC

vicspoetry

Falling

Today, I am falling. I don’t know where I am going to land Or how I started falling in the first place But I can feel my heart smashing against the ground Can feel rocks landing on my lungs I think it was a landslide. A storm of the false assumptions my brain makes Forcing me off of my mountainous high Some people say seasonal depression happens in the winter I think mine occurs during the hotter times When things stay still and dry But that one rainstorm can cause an entire mountain to slide Hands no longer moving on my school papers No longer babbling to teachers who see me as one of the hundreds of faces What do you do when you're only memorable cause of your tragic backstory? How do I become something more than a tale of depression? How do I stop falling? Today, I realized that I can never seem to stop my fall Try and grab on to the cliff or the rocks But they all slide with me. We fall down together Fading under heaps of mud that ***** our visions of life Becoming nothing more than another lost fossil. Bones under so much pressure we become fuel for successful people. Why can’t I be the successful person? Today, I wondered if there’s even a point in trying to stop the fall Every mountain I conquer collapses anyways. Becomes heaps of rocks and rubble for colonists to make skyscrapers on My methods of success are outdated For even the biggest mountains have been conquered before I am nothing more than an unidentifiable face That will be lost to the world shortly after her demise Only remembered for her tragic backstory and a too short life. They say in your senior year you should feel on top of the world But I have yet to climb to that overhyped sensation Instead, I am falling.

36

On July 2nd, 2001 A baby is born in Heidelberg, Germany. I was wrapped in a pink blanket laced with my first panic attack As the ghosts of my ancestors finished giving me my first lessons They told me tales of greatness So I knew what I wouldn’t become Bathed me in lies of happiness and comfort While letting depression sneak its way into my first bottle Cursing me the moment I took my first sip As the nurses came to collect my fragile hope And wipe away every smile that dripped off my face I began my journey in a life that I wasn’t meant to make it out of. The stars sent out prophecies of almost suicides and constellations that formed hospital bills instead of heroes But my parents still pretended that they were given a healthy baby It would have been the first in the family line We kept diving in the same gene pool, though And in the end, we all drowned in the hope that some of us would succeed. On July 2nd, 2001 Another tragedy is born in the world It’s name was _______________ But in a desperate attempt to erase all connections to my birth And undo the curses my ancestors disguised as presents I just go by Vic now.

0

Jan 22, 2018

Jan 22, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC

vicspoetry

The Beginning

On July 2nd, 2001 A baby is born in Heidelberg, Germany. I was wrapped in a pink blanket laced with my first panic attack As the ghosts of my ancestors finished giving me my first lessons They told me tales of greatness So I knew what I wouldn’t become Bathed me in lies of happiness and comfort While letting depression sneak its way into my first bottle Cursing me the moment I took my first sip As the nurses came to collect my fragile hope And wipe away every smile that dripped off my face I began my journey in a life that I wasn’t meant to make it out of. The stars sent out prophecies of almost suicides and constellations that formed hospital bills instead of heroes But my parents still pretended that they were given a healthy baby It would have been the first in the family line We kept diving in the same gene pool, though And in the end, we all drowned in the hope that some of us would succeed. On July 2nd, 2001 Another tragedy is born in the world It’s name was _______________ But in a desperate attempt to erase all connections to my birth And undo the curses my ancestors disguised as presents I just go by Vic now.

23

In this nearly empty trash can I can see the hard work of a former student who wanted her club to feel loved Thrown away and ripped apart just like our confidence. In this nearly empty trash can I can see the scars on a kid’s wrist Torn open and ripped apart until all of their pride bleeds out of their skin In this nearly empty trash can I can see the suicides of my brothers, sisters, and siblings that don’t identify as either Their memories tossed out and joked over as if their breath never breathed life into their former friends In this nearly empty trash can I can see another GSA meeting poster, ripped off the wall and tossed away Because even our papers don’t get respect in these hallways

0

Nov 10, 2017

Nov 10, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC

vicspoetry

Trash Can

In this nearly empty trash can I can see the hard work of a former student who wanted her club to feel loved Thrown away and ripped apart just like our confidence. In this nearly empty trash can I can see the scars on a kid’s wrist Torn open and ripped apart until all of their pride bleeds out of their skin In this nearly empty trash can I can see the suicides of my brothers, sisters, and siblings that don’t identify as either Their memories tossed out and joked over as if their breath never breathed life into their former friends In this nearly empty trash can I can see another GSA meeting poster, ripped off the wall and tossed away Because even our papers don’t get respect in these hallways

12

The thing about glass shoes is that they break far too easily In order to wear them, you have to glide like an angel Sing like a delicate hummingbird And weigh as much as one of their feathers Wearing glass slippers takes a lot of practice. If you press a little too hard, your feet are engulfed by glass shards It's the fine line between beauty and self-harm. Glass slippers are meant to be worn by princesses. They symbolize all your fairy-tale dreams coming true If only they didn't break whenever I set my foot in them. I do my best to make myself petite for my glass slippers Using the old pieces to carve out my cheekbones and make my love handles disappear Somedays I wonder if I've crossed that line between beauty and harm But I'll do anything it takes to get that Cinderella waistline. You know what they say, "A dream is a wish your heart makes," I have to do what my heart says, right?

0

Sep 11, 2017

Sep 11, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC

vicspoetry

Cinderella Dreams

The thing about glass shoes is that they break far too easily In order to wear them, you have to glide like an angel Sing like a delicate hummingbird And weigh as much as one of their feathers Wearing glass slippers takes a lot of practice. If you press a little too hard, your feet are engulfed by glass shards It's the fine line between beauty and self-harm. Glass slippers are meant to be worn by princesses. They symbolize all your fairy-tale dreams coming true If only they didn't break whenever I set my foot in them. I do my best to make myself petite for my glass slippers Using the old pieces to carve out my cheekbones and make my love handles disappear Somedays I wonder if I've crossed that line between beauty and harm But I'll do anything it takes to get that Cinderella waistline. You know what they say, "A dream is a wish your heart makes," I have to do what my heart says, right?

17

My heart breaks every spring break It breaks for kids like me who watch as others visit their home countries While we cannot leave the USA We have to sit and watch people butcher bachata Watch how they're hips refuse to accept something other than Taylor swift We listen when they come back with stories of how they thought our food was too different and not “Mexican” enough as if all Latin America is Mexico We hear the laughs they make at our cousins back home for just being themselves My heart cannot handle the privilege they wear on their sleeves when they come back Knowing I might never see my own island How I am thought it is ***** and dangerous A place where girls should not be left alone While they get the clean streets, they get to avoid the gangs How they assault our girls Don't tell me to just save my money and go next year It is not that simple We don't stay in your resorts We live en el capital y los campos nunca los hoteles y la vida blanco Aka the places you never set foot You go to my island You buy bracelets de mi bandera You try to live my roots But complain when I dare show pride for my people The hypocrisy breaks my heart It's blood pours onto my all American soil Is my island nice? Tell me do the trees sway as if they are dancing to Anthony Santos? Do the branches act as the leading man guiding the leaves to swing their stems to beat? Does the Dominican anthem ring in the hearts of the people A pride that is new and vibrant radiating off their faces How they have clear all their schedules to make sure you see the highlights of our land When you eat do you feel as though each bite was made with the love of thousand of abuelas? Can you envision the hours she spends over a hot gas stove stirring los habichuelas y arroz Using what little food they have left over to feed you over their own blood? Tell me does my island make you proud? It makes my heart filled with joy To know my people did something right that you would walk the same land as slaves That somehow we got enough pride to make sure you had a good time that you were safe that you can have whatever you wanted On my island Tell me, what left is there to complain about? Mi isla es mi corazón, mi sueño, es mi vida Pero to you it is just another week out the calendar My heart will break every march Because when you come back you complain how in the Dominican Republic no one spoke to you in English And I worry, how you think when Dominicans come here we should speak English But when you come to our home you don't want us to speak our language Your hypocrisy hurts My island does all it can to make you happy But you are never pleased What more can we do You take pieces of us and use them in your portrait of appropriation You take our pride and use it as joke My heart breaks For the children like me Never seeing their land Except on Instagram in the middle of march

0

vicspoetry

May 22, 2017

May 22, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC

leethebee

Orgulloso

My heart breaks every spring break It breaks for kids like me who watch as others visit their home countries While we cannot leave the USA We have to sit and watch people butcher bachata Watch how they're hips refuse to accept something other than Taylor swift We listen when they come back with stories of how they thought our food was too different and not “Mexican” enough as if all Latin America is Mexico We hear the laughs they make at our cousins back home for just being themselves My heart cannot handle the privilege they wear on their sleeves when they come back Knowing I might never see my own island How I am thought it is ***** and dangerous A place where girls should not be left alone While they get the clean streets, they get to avoid the gangs How they assault our girls Don't tell me to just save my money and go next year It is not that simple We don't stay in your resorts We live en el capital y los campos nunca los hoteles y la vida blanco Aka the places you never set foot You go to my island You buy bracelets de mi bandera You try to live my roots But complain when I dare show pride for my people The hypocrisy breaks my heart It's blood pours onto my all American soil Is my island nice? Tell me do the trees sway as if they are dancing to Anthony Santos? Do the branches act as the leading man guiding the leaves to swing their stems to beat? Does the Dominican anthem ring in the hearts of the people A pride that is new and vibrant radiating off their faces How they have clear all their schedules to make sure you see the highlights of our land When you eat do you feel as though each bite was made with the love of thousand of abuelas? Can you envision the hours she spends over a hot gas stove stirring los habichuelas y arroz Using what little food they have left over to feed you over their own blood? Tell me does my island make you proud? It makes my heart filled with joy To know my people did something right that you would walk the same land as slaves That somehow we got enough pride to make sure you had a good time that you were safe that you can have whatever you wanted On my island Tell me, what left is there to complain about? Mi isla es mi corazón, mi sueño, es mi vida Pero to you it is just another week out the calendar My heart will break every march Because when you come back you complain how in the Dominican Republic no one spoke to you in English And I worry, how you think when Dominicans come here we should speak English But when you come to our home you don't want us to speak our language Your hypocrisy hurts My island does all it can to make you happy But you are never pleased What more can we do You take pieces of us and use them in your portrait of appropriation You take our pride and use it as joke My heart breaks For the children like me Never seeing their land Except on Instagram in the middle of march

55

I stand before you A target for the bullets you spit I didn't realize we had to read these claims out loud Now I'm hearing you tell me I made a choice about who I am You tell me I chose this path. Your words are acid seeping into my skin slowly deteriorating the pride I used to hold It's hard to be prideful when you're caught up in the accusations and drowning in disrespect Please tell me more about how you are an expert in being gay It's not like I'm a lesbian or anything I obviously know nothing about the topic since I told you People obviously choose to be gay and my experience as a gay person doesn't matter It's not a choice though It's a curse blessed upon you when you are born A trait you find incredibly hard to love, I didn't choose the self-hatred and suicidal thoughts that came with this I didn't choose the ****** harassment and public embarrassment I didn't choose any of this Being gay isn't like when you're at the amusement park and you decide to ride the rainbow roller coaster because it looks pretty It's not a fun ride, it's a deadly one full of insults and discrimination that's hard to get back up from It's being a target for people like you You don't even realize how horrible and toxic the words you spit are to LGBT+ people like me We swallow our words because we know you won't listen Just like how so many lgbt+ youth swallowed a plethora of pills and didn't wake up Wake up. 63% of these teens have attempted suicide in the past year Do not tell me we choose this. And if you think that it's fun to be gay you literally know nothing about our issues Don't tell you're an ally then tell me you think you choose your sexuality I didn't choose the life I was given But you chose your words carefully in a way you thought would pierce me so you could win an argument Not with actual fact but by just picking at your opponent till she feels like nothing You probably never thought about it again that day Yet here I sit, 24 hours later dreading the hour I have to spend in this classroom studying for my finals with homophobia Wondering if running out could be the right answer. I don't like running back to the closet but your words are shoving me into my hangers I hear your voice whenever another guy puts his hand on my thigh and tells me about his lesbian fantasies I hear your voice telling me I chose this Hearing millions of voices telling me that I shouldn't complain because this was my decision Not even asking me what I was wearing because being lesbian makes me enough of a **** already I don't like your toxic spit because I know it'll spray on to the other gay kids around me that are vulnerable and insecure about their sexuality I know your words will deteriorate their pride just like they have done to mine You don't think you're homophobic because you don't shout the word ****** at gay people But there's a lot more to homophobia than that Like completely diminishing the past of LGBT+ individuals and belittling us down to choices Believe me, if I had a choice I would have chosen to be straight because then I wouldn't have to sit in front of you while you disrespected my sexuality I could be another blind ally that doesn't speak up when this **** is happening I'm trying so hard to make things better for the kids like me But you insist on ripping us open. We bleed rainbows and a sense of pride you will never know You don't have to find pride in your sexuality because no one hates straight people for being straight No, we hate straight people like you who insist on being ignorant This worst thing is is that you take pride in your arrogance Holding your American flags high as you belittle my equality You didn't have to fight for anything, you're a straight white guy who takes pride in his privilege One that only insists on spitting toxins I wish I could say I am stronger than your poisons but it's hard to find strength when so few people hold you up If you really think I chose this path, then you should be worried about my mental state Only people who hate themselves would choose this kind of pain Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find my pride again.

0

May 17, 2017

May 17, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC

vicspoetry

Choices

I stand before you A target for the bullets you spit I didn't realize we had to read these claims out loud Now I'm hearing you tell me I made a choice about who I am You tell me I chose this path. Your words are acid seeping into my skin slowly deteriorating the pride I used to hold It's hard to be prideful when you're caught up in the accusations and drowning in disrespect Please tell me more about how you are an expert in being gay It's not like I'm a lesbian or anything I obviously know nothing about the topic since I told you People obviously choose to be gay and my experience as a gay person doesn't matter It's not a choice though It's a curse blessed upon you when you are born A trait you find incredibly hard to love, I didn't choose the self-hatred and suicidal thoughts that came with this I didn't choose the ****** harassment and public embarrassment I didn't choose any of this Being gay isn't like when you're at the amusement park and you decide to ride the rainbow roller coaster because it looks pretty It's not a fun ride, it's a deadly one full of insults and discrimination that's hard to get back up from It's being a target for people like you You don't even realize how horrible and toxic the words you spit are to LGBT+ people like me We swallow our words because we know you won't listen Just like how so many lgbt+ youth swallowed a plethora of pills and didn't wake up Wake up. 63% of these teens have attempted suicide in the past year Do not tell me we choose this. And if you think that it's fun to be gay you literally know nothing about our issues Don't tell you're an ally then tell me you think you choose your sexuality I didn't choose the life I was given But you chose your words carefully in a way you thought would pierce me so you could win an argument Not with actual fact but by just picking at your opponent till she feels like nothing You probably never thought about it again that day Yet here I sit, 24 hours later dreading the hour I have to spend in this classroom studying for my finals with homophobia Wondering if running out could be the right answer. I don't like running back to the closet but your words are shoving me into my hangers I hear your voice whenever another guy puts his hand on my thigh and tells me about his lesbian fantasies I hear your voice telling me I chose this Hearing millions of voices telling me that I shouldn't complain because this was my decision Not even asking me what I was wearing because being lesbian makes me enough of a **** already I don't like your toxic spit because I know it'll spray on to the other gay kids around me that are vulnerable and insecure about their sexuality I know your words will deteriorate their pride just like they have done to mine You don't think you're homophobic because you don't shout the word ****** at gay people But there's a lot more to homophobia than that Like completely diminishing the past of LGBT+ individuals and belittling us down to choices Believe me, if I had a choice I would have chosen to be straight because then I wouldn't have to sit in front of you while you disrespected my sexuality I could be another blind ally that doesn't speak up when this **** is happening I'm trying so hard to make things better for the kids like me But you insist on ripping us open. We bleed rainbows and a sense of pride you will never know You don't have to find pride in your sexuality because no one hates straight people for being straight No, we hate straight people like you who insist on being ignorant This worst thing is is that you take pride in your arrogance Holding your American flags high as you belittle my equality You didn't have to fight for anything, you're a straight white guy who takes pride in his privilege One that only insists on spitting toxins I wish I could say I am stronger than your poisons but it's hard to find strength when so few people hold you up If you really think I chose this path, then you should be worried about my mental state Only people who hate themselves would choose this kind of pain Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find my pride again.

58

The day the ships came my ancestors we not of the aware of the forced melting *** that would come into existence The combination of french and spanish confused the delta slaves Little did they know that neither language would stick on their burnt excuses of tongues The days the ships came New Orleans became the beacon of mulatos And although the conquistadors could **** and beat their slave wives Their spanish advances were not reciprocated due to lack of of heat to complete the melting The languages that conquered the delta were combined into something that no outsider would want to encounter That’s why the Americans came and took it like they did the rest of the country They mistake the magic for voodoo then rebranded it for themselves Centuries later the delta is still a melting *** But it’s one my grandmother’s tongue was forced to forget Her languages were lost next to her mulatto slave ancestors, left to spoil So now when people ask “If you’re hispanic why can’t you speak spanish?” I can barely find the words in english to explain the years of torture my tongue has endured When spanish speaking couples walk into my work My tongue is eager to spill words it wishes it had the ability to create My blood begins to hate itself over the fact that a third of itself is unrecognizable My tongue is still waiting for the new boats to arrive and reconcer it All it knows is to be conquered No self defense here When all you know is to be conquered It becomes a challenge to think for oneself My tongue can’t decide if english, spanish or french is better My creole mind is yelling thousands foreign curse words not knowing which one is a true sin Maybe the sin here is letting the burner stay on too long The day the ships came My slave ancestors looked at their spanish lovers and said “My love, what shall we do once the french arrive?” With their eyes looking into the horizon the conquistadors replied “Es no problema para mi, pero tu, tu es la propiedad de estos” Which according to simple history books means “Good luck”

0

vicspoetry

May 17, 2017

May 17, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC

leethebee

The day the ships came

The day the ships came my ancestors we not of the aware of the forced melting *** that would come into existence The combination of french and spanish confused the delta slaves Little did they know that neither language would stick on their burnt excuses of tongues The days the ships came New Orleans became the beacon of mulatos And although the conquistadors could **** and beat their slave wives Their spanish advances were not reciprocated due to lack of of heat to complete the melting The languages that conquered the delta were combined into something that no outsider would want to encounter That’s why the Americans came and took it like they did the rest of the country They mistake the magic for voodoo then rebranded it for themselves Centuries later the delta is still a melting *** But it’s one my grandmother’s tongue was forced to forget Her languages were lost next to her mulatto slave ancestors, left to spoil So now when people ask “If you’re hispanic why can’t you speak spanish?” I can barely find the words in english to explain the years of torture my tongue has endured When spanish speaking couples walk into my work My tongue is eager to spill words it wishes it had the ability to create My blood begins to hate itself over the fact that a third of itself is unrecognizable My tongue is still waiting for the new boats to arrive and reconcer it All it knows is to be conquered No self defense here When all you know is to be conquered It becomes a challenge to think for oneself My tongue can’t decide if english, spanish or french is better My creole mind is yelling thousands foreign curse words not knowing which one is a true sin Maybe the sin here is letting the burner stay on too long The day the ships came My slave ancestors looked at their spanish lovers and said “My love, what shall we do once the french arrive?” With their eyes looking into the horizon the conquistadors replied “Es no problema para mi, pero tu, tu es la propiedad de estos” Which according to simple history books means “Good luck”

33