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Jack Bronson Apr 7
The east side
The drug pushers
And hoes
The ***** alleys ways
Grass growing up through every single nook
And crack of the imagination

The east side
How I love you
Only there I can see a homeless black ******
Gingerly crossing the street
Only there do I see men walking
Holding their beers
Wrapped up in brown paper bags
Where the Latina girls wear large hoop earrings
Dark make-up and hair
The black girls with their red lipstick

The east side
Smelling of dirt and ****
The internal engine of the city
The cracked houses
The homeless riding electric wheelchairs in the middle of the street
The tagged walls
The abandoned houses
The sign throwing
The shootings
The stabbings
The killings

The east side
Don’t ever change
I need you
Carl D'Souza Jul 2019
Does our Hello-Poetry website
enable poets
from all around the world
to read each other’s poetry
and develop cross-cultural understanding
thereby facilitating global peace?
Arisa Mar 2019
I don't mind when white people wear

cat ears.
kanji slapped on shirts.
(even if they don't know what it means)

Culture can be an aesthetic.
Just as long as they appreciate it,
We're friends.
I don't care about people wearing Japan as long as they respect the culture and control their enthusiasm.
Elena Jan 2019
I think love is what we need in the world.
We needed it so badly we created it. Then we fought over it. And we corrupted it. It even became a disease. Until we found it had a medicinal effect. It could heal.

Love seeps into the ground where we bury it. The decay leaves traces of it. So is love also in death? Love is powerful indeed.

If love can find its way in life and death, it must not be mortal like us. Perhaps we can call it Divine. It must be what we see when we look up to the sky.

That’s why we describe it in so many ways. It flows like the blood in our veins. And when we no longer have the strength in our heart, it becomes the soul of our own.
aiMaureen Jan 2019
Being different is not something that can be taught
The discomfort i feel when i walk into a room where no one looks like me
The stares coming from humans who look at me as "someone" from a different planet
The confidence they emit when they ask if my hair is real

Everyday is a struggle for me, i fight everyday to include myself in places, things that they say are "made for all"
The moment a brother leaves the house we hold our hearts in our hands and the moment they get home we heave a sigh of relief
They might not know it but it is the truth

Everything about me and my people tell a story
From the crown of our head to the sole of our feet
Our hair styles, features, languages, accents, clothings, traditions
I can't teach you how to be black
You want the fun parts not the ones that will make you question why you are being mistreated

Being black is not a subject that can be taught
Even if i add it to the school curriculum
You will never understand it or be it
Enhance yourself all you want but being black is more than that
The beauty of being alive is you have the chance to be you

You have the opportunity to celebrate the ones who are different
To celebrate the differences together with them
Squash your thirst to be something you're not and something you will never be
And hold our hands so we can create a world where we all can be
It is not wrong to be white
and to have dreadlocks
you may look like a pleb
but you offend me not
Nor would it offend
a black rastafarian man
of a temperate manner

I don't know any women
with white skin and
straight hair that get offended
by afro-caribbean women
wearing a straight weave
You're all just too soft now,
you're all just pet peaves

Stop getting offended
on behalf of other people
that don't even take offence
Excuse me,
whilst I build a fence
around myself hombre
Not to keep me here
but to keep you at bay

Cultural appropriation
doesn't exist
Cultural misappropriation
doesn't exist
You're all just
champagne socialists
You should get over it

Yes, you mate
The one that thinks
he's above
and must decide what is
politically correct
and whose life matters

In the end all this is
is a series of cultural
exchanges and we're
all wading through ****

Face it.
A bit of salty food for thought.
A city abroad. A long way from home. New country to new home.
And the universe gave birth to the one body a second time.
These pavements have never been walked upon by the little feet of Vietnam.
Pavements walked by many; yet the feeling is so refreshing.
A Street she will never walk down, decisions she will never make.
As irrelevant as it may seem, no matter how pointless our existence may be.
A human can wonder, and wander.
A human. That is all I am, and that is all I will be.
Nothing we do makes a difference in the great scheme of things.
As we are a speck in the history of a universe that is billions of years old
this poem was extracted from a short story I had written from an English assessment I submitted for a creative task. The task was to write a minimum of 1700 words about an experience of cultural difference and power structure. There are two more parts and I will be posting them straight after this is posted please read them also. These poems are of the character 'Minnie Ngyuen's' own work. Minnie would like to share with you her experiences
Äŧül Jan 2017
I'm the bridge connecting them together,
Two different strains of Indian culture,
And I am doing justice to my mother,
As well as I am doing it to my father.
And I am so linking north with south,
Two different styles of parenting couth,
I'm the son of 2 strains of Indian culture.
My father is an Aryan from north India.
My mother is a Dravidian from the south.
My own definition is of a whole Indian.
My HP Poem #1392
©Atul Kaushal
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