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Nahal Nov 2020
Superposition amongst two worlds
Collision of chemistry, biology and physics
An addition of yin and yang
A oneness only a minority craves
An amalgamation of black and brown
Asian strings
African drums
Mud and
Is that not what makes up our world?
Not trees with leaves of green dollars

Our pain contributes to our art
Two of my favourite songs at the moment are called 'Superposition', and they give me a sense of synaesthesia, but not in the conventional sense of the word. More like an experiential or nostalgic synaesthesia, which is common for most people when they listen to music.
Both the artists come from a background different to the country they were born in. I recognise how I always try to make my accent pronounced when I am in unfamiliar territory, or if I feel like I want to be accepted. It is an interesting concept to consider.
I am reflecting a lot on what it means to be a minority by appearance, being Black or Asian in today's world even if you are born in a dominant first-world country. I am Iranian by ethnicity, but do I still fit in? I believe deeply in the oneness of humanity, and it's often minorities who desire that more than those who already have a sense of belonging.
kevin wright Jun 2020
Civilisation the destroyer of homeostasis

visitors smile on the philistines
how poor
how cute
how primitive
unintelligible Gaels
no soldiers cross to bear

they wear no shoes
they have no ornaments
they eat the poor wildlife
Kildian pose with me

knowledge eras now ignore  
fashionable tweed needed out
no doctors
catch my cold
upgrade the crofts
build them chic

bait those of young age
away to lands a far
remove the labourers
taunt with silver purses
starve the islanders out

oversee the clearance
the navy are here
take only what you can carry
drown the island dogs
the sheep pay the Kildians fare

a good book deposited in each house
to bring peace
protect the souls of Hirte now marooned
secrets of a culture now destroyed
a church, a classroom, a post office now decried
grow now wrack and ruin

Hirte haunt those pleasure seekers
guard the islands for the future
simple ideology now derided
watch the islands fade on the horizon
don’t cry
a cutting-edge society lies ahead

now its time to saviour the gains
too much sugar
too much alcohol
too much smoking
too much crime
too much poverty
and much more in isolation
part three in the series of poems: St Kilda a winters tale and St Kilda a summer tale. St Kilda an isolated island whose culture was disrespected and wiped from the map by a better society. In 1930 for better or worse the population as moved, this represents how many poeples of the world are relocated for a good reason but for whos gain? Also known as Hirta which here represents an ancestral plane.
Sandoval Oct 2019
Poor little
in love
with the all

We never stood a chance..
Toxic yeti Feb 2019
Dear fellow
Tibetan woman
Who are
Ignored over whites....

You are better than them
You are beautiful
Strong and
You’re a tantric goddess.

Dear  fellow ethinic woman
Is rejected
For whites.....

You are artistic
One of a kind

To the African American woman
Who is cheated on
By your boy friend
For a blond.....

You’re strong willed

Love your self first.
Dee Oct 2018
I have visited the land of over the moon happy
Where my tears created silent rivers
Being an ethnic woman
The exotic figure of many dreams
Feels like popping the champagne
And having to clean up the mess afterwards
I am both the star and the maid at the same time
Denise Jul 2018
You’re pretty… he says
for a dark-skinned girl
I usually don’t talk to your kind.
am I supposed to feel honor?
you hopped of your pedestal, down to mine?
I will not curve my lips into the half of the crescent moon that you’re expecting
you do not deserve that.
exclusion encumbers me and I am small in your eyes.
Surely you can see that I am a dark girl,  sweet berries ; color of night
the same colors that allowed my ancestors to take flight.
freeing them from *******,
wounds that had them tied, without my hue, we would’ve died.
I am a stone immortal, no work of erosion can seep through my cracks.
the trials of my ancestors drawn on their backs.
so our heads, we never hang down , we are to be found.
scars to be hidden
it is the gas in a run-away car,
that last sip an alcoholic has as their arm and wrist lay dangling at the bar
this is the prestige of my hue
if I’m just pretty? then what could beauty possibly mean to you. a rare blend of  history, struggle and strength.
My head will not hang, not once more
by noose or in self distress, I am history.
No more do I long to sit at a table with you,
in the wake of waiting for your admiration
I have created my own table, in appreciation of your hesitation.
To you my worth will always be in comparison to what’s missing
that being pretty for a dark-skin girl, is a blessing.
Worth far more than bedazzled insults
, convinced I was worth less
they could see it in my eyes, the way I dressed.
The hue that I am is far greater than they told me
accepting  back handed accolades,  that’s the old me.
This house that holds my soul is only almost pretty… they say
if I weren’t so dark I might be worth loving, caring wanting or staying.
My color, a rustic espresso, no cream.
you say I am pretty for a dark- skinned girl …
no I’m pretty and that’s it!
signed a FED UP dark skinned chick
Amanda dish
rag tell
her tag
yet her
scrumptious immortal
date bag
told of
a tree
once harbinger
of seedling
if apostrophe
a jeering
speech that
answers the
question of
a Bosnian
ax grinder
Hailyn Suarez May 2017
"You're Mexican?! You don't look Mexican?"
             "What's Mexican supposed to look like?"
"Oh, you know... Sombrero, a curly twirly mustache, maybe like holding a taco!"
            "I am eating a taco."

"No, like a real taco.
One that is like made in Mexico,
with like Mexican beans,
and Mexican ladies.
You know what I mean."
           "No, I don't."

"What's it like? Did you have a quinceanera thingy? Do you speak Spanish?"
           "No and no."
"What?! Then you like aren't a real Mexican. All Mexicans can habla Espanol."

            "Oh, you know what. I forgot. I know what it is."
             "I'm not just Mexican, I'm German too."
"That makes like total sense. No wonder you can't speak Spanish. But wait, like were your family Nazis?"
Misael Lopez Nov 2015
You are both and neither,
A lonely traveler searching for a home,
A social outcast,
A winding fork in the road.

Always Two separate paths,
Converging and Diverging,
Must you choose one or the other?
So many Possibilities not yet discovered.

Your unique disposition,
Superior to all in retrospect,
Yet they say purity and unison,
Not diversity and opposition.

Why then, where and when then,
Do you truly belong?
In every sense,
that is both your gift and curse.

You must find or create,
The mystical land of Grey in-betweens,
For both you and me.
We are who we are

— The End —