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Air has no religion
Water no creed
Food breaks the fast
Whatever the caste
Humanity remain steadfast!
Fire burns everyone
Whatever the race
Floods can wipe out anyone
Leaving no trace
Humanity remain steadfast!
So we live with grace!
dessa Aug 26
caste to caste,
we are on a pyramidal paste.
less to none, the options to outclass
this is the cry of an outcast.
On a sea of sand
A pair of parched lips
Pasted on the burnt skin.

Under the violent Sun
She stood by a *** of water

The bent crooked back
wrinkled flesh falling of her bones...

Sun runs to his mistress
Hidden behind the clouds of West,
She stands watching their union

Waiting for a drop of water
From the *** kept beside her

The *** she can't touch

She, a woman
A polluted piece of flesh
A scheduled caste!!!
Sweet Akunna of the forbidden caste,
with breast ***** and succulent to taste.
She has marble eyes that blossom by day,
and ivory teeth worth a millennium's pay.
Her rare curves dangle to her feet's rhythm,
for the gaze of rivals deep in schism.
Her moist lips have their natural redness,
as bright in colour as a crimson dress.
Her body's landscape is soft with fragrance
of love and sweetness in sheer abundance.
She has long, smooth and fine pillars for legs,
for which every man dreams daily and begs.
In rejection she rules the rain forest
as the queen of misfits, but still the best.
An outcast with beauty that subjugates
all free born women yearning at the gates
of the gods for such unique endowments
which are natural without ornaments.
A poem about a very beautiful girl of a lower caste in igboland, Nigeria.
When a neck is crushed by someone's knee
He may not be able to breathe
He may even die

It's not always a matter between two
It’s a matter of Justice and Injustice
The Injustice crushes the neck of justice

Crooks say Blacks and Whites always fight
But they are not at all right
It’s a myth created by the haters

Haters injects racism, casteism, religionism
In the breath, mind and blood of everyone
But not everyone are that much fools

When haters are supported by the throne
Then the peoples who are not the fools
They shake the throne with much force

They convey the message in a nice way
They have the power to invert the throne
They have the power to break the throne

Because Blacks and Whites never fight
They recognize each others right
And always support what is right
Will You Support?? Are you ready to support??
Tizzop Dec 2019
i want to be white because i'm black
i want to be black because i'm white
i want to wake up like you did last night:

without wants
Today is a good day.
pk tunuri Sep 2018
Girl: Dad, I love him so much

Father: Shut your mouth or i'll **** him

Girl: Do you even understand what love is, Dad?

Her Father replied,
AMISHA Jun 2018
" Who is in there? !  Answer eh! "
The shadow trembled .                 " Are you black or white?!"       
  " I am hungry, sir. '' The voice replied.

Why is it that souls are judged on the basis of their colour?  This disgraceful conjecture which has been dejecting people  for centuries, seems on an external tenure. When will it bear a full stop? Be it the western nations, where it determines a person's status or the southern, where it decides a person's magnitude of beauty. Although, this mind set is hobbling downwards, yet some vestiges are still sparky, which are needed to be hushed off. 
Feel free to share your thoughts.
Charles Ernest Nov 2017
The desire to show myself
Could get me killed
With the malicious intentions of the world that I inhabit.
The name on my forehead
Is that of a caste
I am what they say I am born with
Then I must tell you that I am born with a gift to create
Would you then call me the creator’s own reflection?
Leave the question unanswered.
I desire to show myself still.
I want to tell the world about the art
That I had created
The covers of the books I designed
The books I am about to write.
Then I contemplate what I want to share
Through this feeling to bare myself naked.
I realize that I want to experience
The dazzling beauty of the smile
Radient on the reader’s lips
On the art connoisseur's face
The artist that I am
And not the illiterate brute that they call me to be.
The truth is in my nakedness
And I desire to unveil it in front of you
It, the cloak of my pen-name,
The mask of my unrealized self,
The naked body of my noetic being.
Disclaimer: This poem is not autobiographical. However, I do feel all the above. It's as if a storm unbound within my soul.
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