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joel jokonia Oct 2017
i guess i do like the pain
cause i laugh after its done
how crazy it was
that my mum actually bit me
no like true story my mum bit me

you might think she is abusive
but i like her character art is impressive
she turns totally off reason
keeps her senses imprisoned

i tried to explain
but the rage rain rained upon me
all she wanted was to stroke me
i swear i lose my mum in that moment
cause i try look in her eyes and she nowhere near

she strokes me and unknowingly i hold her shambok in my hand
i stare at her to understand
but all it does it highs her temper
now she is pulling her shambok a little stronger
i try to talk but she is trying to pull
she cant listen
and she plays victim

the struggle continues
i watch her anger elevate and it fascinates me, weirdly
so i resist a little more
she starts pulling me to the kitchen
now the scene has more attention

pulling out drawers
trying to put hand on anything pain inflicting
and still i am resisting

made it to the door and out
her voice a bit loud
realising that whatever i try will not demotivate her
so i gave up and let her, as usual
let her stroke me to her satisfaction
and goes on and on
about me being stubborn because i am older
how i think i am stronger cause i am a man
man, whats wrong with mum

she strokes me with her shambok still
as i stood still
amused by her accusations
but am patient and let her

after she done she is angry still but satisfied though
now her eyes glow
she tries to conceal it by playing anger
i smile
it took me a while to understand, while
she was in her act
i had travelled mindlessly in my mind
thinking how a silly situation
of her calling me and me not responding
had become a series of chaos

little packages do become dynamites
this is what bothers me though
i do have a thrill everytime we have a misunderstanding
i dont understand this
i guess i am just my mother's child
my mum sometimes
girl diffused Oct 2017
let me remind you:
know that i am the scream
i am the protest
i am the revolution
i am the awakening
of every black leader
every protester
every revolutionist
every poet
every writer
that has breathed and lived and paved paths
and immortalized and cut scathing with their art
that has cut swaths through rivers
that have tunneled through caves
that have smeared wet earth on their faces
that have picked through the foliage on mountains
know that i am every woman who has bled for her child
know that i am every foreign tongue that has unbound us
know that i am every unshackled and raised fist
know that i am a woman
know that i am a black woman
i am every black queen
i am not a display
i am not an object
i am not something to be coveted
you have no right to salivate over me
you have no right to stitch lust into my skin
you have no right
let me remind you:
i am a black woman
soft, wild, and free
I changed this a bit from what it was before. I ended up revising the capitalized "I" and making them all lowercase for the sake of cohesion. This is meant to be an empowering piece. It's old. At the time I wrote it I was reading Warsan Shire. Like me and so many other 1st-generation children from immigrants who are also artists or self-proclaimed or "budding," her work at some point deals with the topic of immigration, having immigrant parents, and also it deals with being a woman who is black. It deals with womanhood too.

A lot of my work is very romantic, dark, I would say cutting in some spaces. It has some macabre imagery, a lot of it is intentionally repetitious. A vast majority of it is also deeply personal. They are individual poetic narratives and I think poetry should first and foremost be about that poet's personal experience. Maybe I will write a poem that can be collectively about my race's experience, until then, what ever comes out, will come out.

This is, like Warsan's work, applicable to any other black woman. We quietly feel the need to assert and remind others of our worth, we quietly remind ourselves of our worth, we have to take part in a ******, mental, spiritual, and emotional evolution to love ourselves in a society that does not and has not historically loved us. It still doesn't.

This poem comes from that part inside of me that has felt this way. I've had partners most of whom were not of my race, most of them Caucasian, and some were fascinated with my being 1st-generation "somethingsomething" or "Caribbean."

I'm proud of my heritage and I always maintained and will maintain that. However, despite having been with accepting partners, accepting men and friends, there were some men that I felt liked me just because of my blackness or demeaned it (one did or attempted to). But this isn't just for me, it's for any woman who has felt or feels this way.

It's a reminder: you matter, you are black, you are ******* beautiful, but you are more than that outer beauty. No man can just be allowed to claim you ONLY for that.

This is my gift to every little black girl and woman
A gift from one black woman to another.
Enjoy. Xoxo.

Also, here's a link to info about Warsan Shire. I would highly recommend checking out some of her work. She's simply put, amazing.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/warsan-shire
I've always heard that you can't fight together if you're both not in the ring;
But what if we're both in but not fighting for the same thing?!
Because I found myself always fighting for your heart while you were fighting me to save your ego
I was fighting to understand and to be understood
While you fought to muffle my voice with yours.
My concerns were held in chokeholds-
Unreleased even as I was wheezing and suffocating.
You were trained for this and I have no idea what I was thinking;
But I'm tapping out...
VOICE OF AN AFRICAN CHILD​

Fem... Fem!
The voice of our teacher boomed,
Empowered with his long cane,
Bald from corruption, we heard,
A Pin drop could be heard,
Trapping our lips between our hands.

The voice is trapped along,
But my mind is a chaos
The voice in my head voiced as clear as thunderstorm,
Revealing my deepest desires,
Revealing the ideas rumbling,
But it's all in my mind
For my lips are sealed.

I'm told to be silent
In school, at home.
My ideas and troubles are locked in my mind.
For I am a child whose voice
is taken as nuisance,
And my silence, timidity.

So, I write,
Let the silence be broken
And my voice be heard!

© ​Rawbeeheart​
Kilam TA Sep 2017
I need you both
because balance is good
Fear, I know you are over protective
Imagination, I know you are blindly optimistic
but with balance comes discipline
because balance is good
I will continue to consult you both
as you are my allies
on this journey to self revelation
and realization
I will continue to consult you both
because balance is good
Kilam TA Sep 2017
Let me stay warm
bask in your walls of life
hold tight till stars exchange long glares with sunlight
And tell the moon of blue skies
mistaken as true lies
with the hues of red and purple
between the hours of midnight and noon
I'll never hurt you
only love long pass curfews
Until we sleep clutched in an embrace
awaken by the same love on a new day
Kilam TA Sep 2017
The seed cracks with growth
separating through reach destined for the heavens
competing with the similarly ambitious
because space is finite
So, aspire to grow small?
I think not for I am a seed
"Let me exceed", I shall ask
fore my pedals will expand and spread my  pollen
Never, to recede
Attempting to mix imagery with abstract cerebral complexity
31 | 31 Poems for August 2017

There’s something exquisite about your smile, your brown eyes have got me hypnotised, and your heart is a gold mine.
I’m addicted to everything you say and do, so be my poet and I’ll be your muse.
We’ll figure out everything else once we’ve found something to do between our sporadic bursts of laughter.
Let me comfort you with soulful conversations accompanied by several bottles of red wine.
We could vibe out and listen to James Blake, and you could tell me about the days when you couldn’t see the colour in anything.
I’m no stranger to the waves of the ocean, so I eventually want to get lost in the depths of you.
You are a picturesque South African city worth exploring even when tourists no longer come to visit.
Their dollars, euros, pounds, nairas and rupees may run dry but my love for you will keep overflowing.
I could write poetry and love letters on your skin but my handwriting is not as beautiful as my words are.
I’ll be your poet in a world that’s still acquainting itself with all the writers of exquisite African literature.
In the Supreme Court of your love, people have told you untruths while under oath – I think the law calls it perjury.
We could vibe out and listen to James Blake, and you could teach me how you see the colour in everything.
I want to get lost in an endless field of sunflowers while basking in the warmth of your presence.
Kilam TA Aug 2017
I never want to be your "what if"
I never want my insecurities
to shorten your trajectory
I only want to provide the lift
I never want to be your "maybe"
I never want to be your "yes"
when "no" leads to success
I only want your safety
I never want you to second guess
I only want you to know this
I want you to know you are the best
and I want you to know, I know this
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