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  Nov 2017 gr
Lynx
Some people say I'm hyperactive
But that's not me
Some people say I'm cute
But that's not me
Some people say I'm heartless
But that's not me

I don't know what I want
And I don't know what I am
But I know what I'm not
But that's okay
At least, I think so

I know what I love
And I know what I dislike
I know what I hate
But only sometimes

Life is a mystery
Life is a puzzle
And I want to solve it
But I know this puzzle is never ending
For now, I guess
I'll just focus on the pieces that make those around me happy.
I don't know what I'm doing, sorry.
  Nov 2017 gr
kyss
my chest is getting tight
the walls are closing in
my whole body is shaking
i wish i could die
i can't breathe
i can't think straight
    i need to get out
i need to get out
help.
gr Nov 2017
it really hurts that you could do something;
something so cruel.
leaving me breathless and hopeless.

all i did was care.
all you did was lie.

lies
lies
lies

they're all lies.
why did i believe you?
the idea that someone could care
so deeply for someone like me,
it's ridiculous.

i should have known
you were like all the others.
but i prayed.
i prayed you weren't.

then you let me down with your

lies
lies
lies
  Nov 2017 gr
Waverly
Who Am I?

Well,
I must be
that ******,
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.


Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.


You see,
I must be
that ******,
a stand-in
for all other *******.
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******,
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******.

In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.

But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."

And If I happen to be a ******,
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******,
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******,
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******."

Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.

And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******,
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-*******
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."

Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,

not in the ****** way,

but the familial,
species way.

Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.

Search and find "******"
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
gr Nov 2017
there is something in my skin,
something evil,
full of sin.

lurking below the surface,
making me itch.

i am quite annoyed.
please pluck it out
and fill the void.

it's hurting,
it's hurting so bad.
i wish this wasn't
all i had.

it's making me writhe,
it's making me twitch,
all my devices begin to glitch.

is this it?
is this all?
is this
gr Sep 2017
i sit not in silence,
but in noise;
analyzing the many thoughts
that flood my mind.

i am not here nor there,
i am settled in my own head.

the sounds around me
don't drown out the sorrow,
but rather deepen the pain.

one would think of these vibrations as a distraction,
but the noise just echoes the loneliness.
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