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Darryl M May 8
I can tell you things, lips don’t open up to.
Things voices don’t shout out for.

Like a leaf in autumn, don’t die in silence, my love.
Speak, for her ears would listen.
Speak, for the Double Dutch of the heart.

What is a man?
What is a woman?
What is this?
I’d call it love.
Would you?

Living my life as an empty vase,
You became the decoration.
Caught up in the dark,
Is it the blindness, I seek?
Or, is it the love I feel?

Your hands are far off,
Nevertheless, I’m touched.
Facing your way, I see something in you.
What is it?
Don’t tell.

I can tell you things, lips don’t open up to.
Things voices don’t shout out for.
I speak it, You speak it.
It’s foreign to them.
The Language of the Heart.
laurynas-dyma Apr 16
не мое место,
далеко от дома,
где тепло в
моем сердце.
london

not my place,
far from home
where it's warm
in my heart.
ns carmona Apr 6
(No puedo hablar la lengua.)
I cannot speak my father's native tongue.
(No puedo hablar suficiente...)
At least, not enough of it to get by.
(...no entiendo, lo siento.)
The body I inhabit feels like foreign territory.
(No lo se.)
My grasp of it ends here.

I. OTRA VIDA

Dia de san valentin, 2000: mi padre aprendió inglés por amor; voló a través del mar Mediterráneo. Él tiene miedo de los sonidos cuando trata de hablar. Pero él lo intenta. Él habla casi perfectamente -- mientras, estoy teniendo una conversación uno-a-uno con Google. Es vergonzoso.

I recall two or three trips, max. There's a blend of urban and natural that's a haven for the eye -- the buildings themselves are seduced by the sun; divine blends of amber, tawny, white. Classically Romantic. That nighttime humidity fogs up your lungs and makes it feel like a hug. There was a time when we were poised to move back there - and in Dad's case, another, nearly leaving without any desire to take me with him.

My makeshift home is built upon stereotypes: orange trees, olive oil, generous glasses of vino. Pienso qué un otra vida where I'm stood on the beach at dusk, with heavy-lidded eyes and ears attuned to cicadas and rolling waves. This is narcissistic **** for the woman I could've been - she is all smiles, bilingual, peace embodied. Those are the nights when I'm not careful: she leaves my bed by morning.

II. ESTA VIDA

To mourn the "what ifs" shows a lack of gratitude for what is, and god, what luck! For inglés to be the second most-spoken language, de-facto "centre of the universe"! To migrate most anywhere and get by; for the Western world to be coerced into Anglophonic bliss since tourism makes their ends meet!

On a holiday, I clam up ordering "una batista fresa" and get a taste of how my father feels. José Francisco: his colleagues call him Frank, in the same way I shun my legal surname because a Spanish 'LL' is too hard for others to grasp. I reek of privilege - post-post-Franco, white European, playing with my non-language behind closed doors. There's private delight in a rolled 'r': momentarily, I'm local, not a mere faux-foreigner appropriating my own heritage. Ironic - he tries to be "less immigrant" whilst I've got the fortune of trying to be more.

I was born into a universe of possibilities. A million options feel like fate -- screenwriter, Oxford grad, Spanish barmaid-or-waitress-or-I'll-take-whatever -- each unchased path is a reminder that, somehow, I'm choosing wrong. I've never perceived myself as small (ex-tall child, "ex"-chubby kid with a head outstretching the clouds, first of the eleven-year-olds to grow **** and got gawped at like I'd grown an extra nostril). Outside this hall of mirrors, I am tiny -- too small to have this many dreams -- manifesting as terror-borne paralysis because I want to do more than I'm built for. Solution: aim smaller or grow up.
half-whiny, half-dreaming. i don't normally rely on google translate - i'm trying to self-teach with duolingo (occasionally enlisting grammatical help via dad).
دema Apr 5
the first time
our lips met
didn't feel foreign,
it was like
you were my home
country
and I had only just
entered your land,
took a taste of the berry tree
that my grandma grew,
in either ways;
she would be
******.
bebe = grandma in my language (Iraqi)
Baylee Kaye Mar 25
I hear him every night in my dreams
whispering words I don’t understand
the way his sentence rolls off his tongue
leaves me translating his body language
because it’s the only language we know to speak
All of my best
(And worst) thoughts
Can be traced
Back to a foreign city
Where I walked the streets
Alone, at night
A short poem from when I spent a summer alone in New York City
Thoughts become unspeakable
Mind plays tricks
Scared and confused am I
Why am I like this

Dazed and depressed
Alone and afraid
Who deserves this
No one

Words are meaningless
The actions don't add up
Sealed. Locked. Closed.
My heart will become

Trust is foreign
Alone is normal
I lock myself away

c.m.l.
I'm brOKen Feb 16
What hurts most of all is I’m disappointing,
A disappointment,
That is I really am.

For a decade I’ve been trying to change it;
Wear the faces,
Because what you want is masks.

Covered up,
And hidden in plain sight;
Paradotic oxymoron.

More days keep coming in your daylight,
Manipulate
And make
Me foreign.
Maha Feb 5
Warm covers and familiar crashes and thuds
The orchestra of this house.
Why does it feel foreign?
This Home.
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