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annh Sep 12
Dream your life in watercolours,
Live your life in oils,
Frame your canvases with time and distance;

Hang each by a silver thread,
In a windowed gallery of memories,
Exhibit often and without discrimination;

Celebrate the beauty in your clumsiest brushwork,
Accept the imperfections in your mastery,
Reshape your truths, as light plays and colour transforms.

‘If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.‘
- Émile Zola
"You can join our group," he says,
"But only if you look everyone in the eyes."
I freeze.
Surely he is aware by now that the words
Autism Spectrum Disorder
In my chart were not placed there for fun?
Surely he is aware by now that finger twitching, body rocking,
     gaze avoiding
Are not for my frivolous pleasure?
Surely he is aware by now the absurdity of what he asks?
I am autistic.
Burning irritation of the eyes and panic aside,
Staring creepily into another human's eyeballs
Would render group a waste of time, no possibility to listen.
He knows this.
It is his prejudice that keeps him rooted to the spot.
I can feel the weight of his expectations boring into my forehead.
Explaining what it is to ask this of me,
I remind him that drawing this line would be excluding me because
Of my autism.
I tell him he would be losing a valuable participant,
A deep thinker, a creator, an avid listener.
I tell him he would be discriminating,
That I am protected by law.
Oh, no.
He budges not,
For he does not dislike autistic humans
So long as they act like they are Neurotypical,
So long as I pretend to be
Someone I am not.
“Your soooo pretty... for a Mexican girl”
Ive heard this many times. For a Mexican girl
Kiara Malig Sep 1
You tainted my soul,
You pretended to be the sleep I needed after years of ******* with insomnia.
Loving you made my mouth a ****** warpath.
My tongue bled from biting on itself,
See, you provided the bullets,
You said you kept me at bay,
I never knew at bay meant silent,
I never knew at bay meant surrender,
forgetting,
keeping still,
not knowing how to breathe,
Breathless,
Broken,
Edged scissors,
Slammed fingers,
Broken glass bottles,
Paper cut stains,
Shadow of a corpse,
I never knew at bay meant silent.

This war you’ve started has no means of ending,
This war you’ve started, I have not fought through.
I start swallowing so many ******* apologies that I’m sure my stomach’s about to burst,
I start forcing the hostility down my throat,
Till its sharp brittle edges make my muscles bleed.
I start,
And I cannot stop.
I start,
And I do not know how to stop.
I start,
And I do not want to stop.
Michael Hole Aug 23
The great unbreakables and unscalable walls of yore are not broken.

They just ceased to be walls.
Now just a slightly dumbfounding mist.

You pass through them like a bad smell
because they were never really there.
And those that built them
With ignorance and shame
Are long dead.

They are only an obscure memory of pain, oppression or struggle.
Abigail Aug 16
When you lean on providence as the arbiter of your fortunes, then your fortunes have been decided not by your qualities but by circumstance inherent to your birth.

To be so juvenile as to direct your appreciation for your fortunes externally, and particularly toward the divine, shows a lack of design. You receive of life rather than act as creator.

The ones who slave, the ones who doggedly toil. The ones who see through the grates in the gutter and claw our way to the streets to even begin to walk free of the stench and putrefaction you lay upon us in your most casual activities—we are a Godless lot.

We envy and despise your pursuits. And when we walk through your world, finally, it is frantic. It is frenetic. It is joyful and hateful and ripe with pain and passion and we lay our praise, our worship at our own feet. And we will hear your praise. Again and again.

To belong in your world is to burn inside. With love, with revulsion and with power. Beware when we walk among you, for we will see you bow, yes we shall. Beware of the day when we walk among you en masse. On that day, no God, no karma, no twisted fate will design your fortunes. It will be I and she and he and they, and we shall not be so kind.
Dhriti Seth Jul 10
I hope you don’t judge me
By the pigment on my face
I hope you see more in me
Than the inches around my waist

I hope you stop believing
That age is a handicap
I hope you don’t seclude me
If we’re from different places on the map

I hope you don’t feel
As if I’m a threat to you
Just because my choice of partners
Is crucified by taboo

I am not the inferior gender
I demand equal place and pay
And when someone wrongs me
I hope Society doesn’t push me away

I hope you don’t shun me
Because my gender is undefined
I hope you don’t try your best
To crush me in the world’s grind

I hope you open your eyes and see
That our He was always the same
We need to stop all death and destruction
That happens in His name

I hope this system of division
Hasn’t stuck to your mind
And when it comes to basic rights
I hope I am not left behind
                                        - D.S.
Hey guys! I'm new here so would really love to make new poet-friends and be a part of the community. Please be sure to leave a comment. Rip the poem apart if you like, constructive criticism is my salvation and is always eagerly awaited. Thanks a lot. Hope you have a great day and a great week.
Until next time,
Dhriti Seth
We are not all seen equal
Not when blacks are seen as evil
Not when Gender-queers
Are simply 'insecure'
Not when women need to watch what they wear
Because otherwise men don't have to care

What if the next black child that was harmed
Was your own?
What if the next transgender beaten
was you brother?
What if the next woman defiled
was you?

Then would your views change?
Let’s dig deep into that topic no one wants to speak of.
At the end of this discussion let’s see who will show me love.
Here comes the blacks, the hoodlums, and the thugs.
The scums of this earth the rodents, and the bugs.
Always on the street corner selling them drugs.
They look at me like I’m a criminal lower than the minimum.
Keeping me stuck in my ways for days to years.
I go to work and come home look at my wage with tears.
There’s no way i’m getting out of here.
I’m not going to fall, I stand tall and never fear.
Even in my darkest days i’m never scared.
So, let them stare, I’ll shrug my shoulders like I don’t care.
I can face any battles I’m well prepared.
But why must I explain myself!
I am a citizen, with a good behavior, and well disciplined.
I went school and graduated, education is my insulin.
Things happen in life back when I had a mission then.
Now, I’m just one out of many men.
Who gets abused, misused, by my own American rules.
Where is this freedom? Let Me Be!
Like there’s no one else left but me.
We are the same, the skin is where you don’t agree.
My complexion is the only way you notice me.
So I don’t need a name, your target is aimed.
The feeling is mutual but it wasn’t always the same.
Who am I?
I must be black because my absent father won’t come back.
I am eccentric. I am authentic.
I am something you would never forget to mention.
I am a Black woman.

Who do you want me to be?
I must be Asian because with eyes like these I can solve any equation.
I am intelligent. I am pure elegance.
I am delicate.
I am an Asian woman.

Who do you think I am?
I must be Hispanic because my last name simply states it.
I am diligent. I am militant.
I am an immigrant.
I am a Hispanic woman.

Who should I be?
I may be white by culture, but not by sight.
I am privileged. I am a perfect image.
I have no limits.
I am a White woman.

On paper, the box I checked says Asian,
But sometimes I forget.
What if my race isn't solo, or singular?
It’s a duet—or even a quartet.
My race is tricolor—sometimes invisible.
My race isn't inside, and no, it's not physical.

What if my race is the rushing water of the Mississippi river?
The river just flows and flows—
Runs wherever it may go,
But some are quiet as they trickle in;
Drop by drop a new river begins,
As the water mixes, roaring free.
If you want to label my race, fine, label me.
Label my hair, my customs, or my speech.
Race is just a rumor that mankind decided to teach.

I wish I could forget that I have a race,
That the color is still staining my face.
I'm tired of the separation,
The segregation, the humiliation,
The exhaustion of having a race.
Why label the color on my skin?
Why not embrace the person that I hold within?


*R.A.C.E. stands for Reclassify All Children Equally.
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