I feel as if i’m cursed
As if it’s a misfortune to love her
In this lifetime at least
How brave we must be to love each other.
We were both north poles
Only meant to connect with south instead of each other
That’s how everything was supposed to be laid out…
But there have to be some similarities
Whether that similarity is music
Friends, family, hobbies, sports...
Would you really rather see two men holding weapons
Do you want to see the slits on wrists
When you tell them who they can’t kiss?
Just so you know
I'm a girl
I love a girl
And I’m okay with that
You should be too.
I'm not expecting this to do very well but...it's a good feeling to write about it..
Her poetry is also about me
even though it isn't entirely true
there ís a fire in my belly
maybe it can be put out
but as long as it burns, it desires
the best of you
that does not lust after my beauty
to penetrate my lips
but is longing
for the best of me
the heavy whole, holy
and safe, my home
that I formed myself
from the metal of my body
and the silk of my spirit
For Siera Mayhew
“Milk and Honey”, 2014, by Rupi Kaur
(Punjab, India, 1992)
Collection “The light of words"
I am sick and tired of being sick and tired
I am tired of the fights,
The political wars,
And the real ones
Of the lies and deceit,
Of the blinding ignorance
You don’t care
You. Don’t. Care.
Because you don’t have to
Your brothers aren’t being shot,
Your mothers aren’t being locked up
Your aunts aren’t being deported,
And your cousins aren’t beating themselves up
You don’t care,
but I wish you did
What do I have to do?
Because all my talking and all my speeches aren’t helping
I am being called an angry child,
so you can sit comfortably on your throne of privilege
So please, enjoy
Enjoy as your world crumbles and falls around you
But know this
I may be tired,
I may be fed up,
And I may be frustrated,
But I am **** sure not done yet
I write with a broken pencil.
Broken like my father’s promises,
he keeps saying he’ll change.
my mother’s virginity
and their 15 years of marriage.
This pencil of mine
like the nations economy,
my love for Madiba,
and unknown heritage.
It feels like the false truth
of old wars
faught by my grandfather
and his brothers,
who never made it back home
to raise my mother
Maybe this is why
I’m comfortable in the shadow
of an absent father.
Broken and untraceable
like the blood on the white man’s hands.
Lifeless as the coldest of wrists
we have buried secrets,
In search histories.
Trust no one but google
We are lost,deep down
6 feet in coffins.
Masked it all
with a smile
because in the picture
we have to look happier.
I write with a broken pencil
but still a pencil.
Broken is a do not give up type of poem.This poem looks at South Africa and South Africans as a whole in terms of the history and how we evolving as a nation to becoming more advanced and western resulting in losing our african roots.In this poem we see how women are more liberated (leaving a marriage).It kinds of reflect how the past does creep and shape the future(old wars/absent fathers).It also shows how through all this evolution the generation that is born free is actually dying/suicidal because of social media influences and that living perfect digital lives is our struggle but through it all we still push and make it.Enjoy
the lonely wailing on the radio
or a smile for the screen
The strings do they pull
poor corners of your mouth
sore fleshy cheeks
leave the bone below for your own mind
Cream teeth molded to what the you believed
they want of you
Woman or man or he or she or him or they their
We admonish expectation.
September 2, 2019
I am scared.
Not just for myself but for all the girls out there.
For all those girls who walk home alone really late.
For all those girls whose bosses after work hours ask them to wait.
For all the young girls who don't even know much about anything yet.
For all the women whose husbands or fathers get real drunk after sun set.
Why you ask me?
Because of all the disgusting stories I've heard and the terrible things I've seen.
Because men get away with almost anything.
Even if they've ruined a girl's everything.
Because y'all don't want to teach boys to treat women with respect.
You don't want to teach them to back off when she rejects.
You just want to go on about how she should have dressed more appropriately.
But even then would he have treated her differently?
I don't think so.
Because we encouraged this when we failed our girls a long time ago.
When we didn't give justice to all those countless women.
When we let the guilty men walk away as if they had done nothin'.
When we blamed the victim.
When we didn't even let her speak and only listened to him.
We failed when she stopped reporting even, because she didn't want to make it worse for herself.
We failed when we drove her so mad, so devoid of hope that she ended it then and there.
You never act like a boy,
or a girl,
You act neither,
let me give you some reminders:
You walk neither,
sway your hands in ambiguity,
don’t carry with you a briefcase or a feather duster –
the tone of your voice must be the interim of everything,
if it would have colors it must be colorless,
not dark navy nor shallow pink.
meaning you think without personality.
you don’t scatter petals prior the arguments,
nor you hide stringencies behind moon blasts –
You become neither –
you call no one man, nor woman woman,
you call every one neither –
So smile neither,
meaning you don’t smirk,
or coyly carve a canopy on your face,
You don’t want to offend anyone, do you?
Neither do I.
Flowers in a field look so lovely.
Flowers in a field how your colours burn so bright.
Flowers in a field with breezes sway so gently.
Flowers in a field reaching skyward craving light.
Wild grasses grow amongst such beauty.
Wild grasses grow to set the balance right.
Wild grasses grow not in awe of what’s around them.
Wild grasses grow knowing they are equals in His sight.