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Jemima Mitra Sep 2019
I walk in and three heads turn around
They look me up and they look me back down.
It’s like they’ve never seen a brown girl
On this side of town.

It makes me uncomfortable enough
To want to walk back out that door
But then again I’m in Beverley
And dressed like a bit of a *****.

It seems I’m the only brown girl
Here for another mile
So walking into a pub
Kinda feels like I’m standing on trial.

Their eyes meet mine
But they do not smile
Their looks feel cold
As if they’ve just been told

A dodgy secret about me
And they’re trying to suss out if it’s true.
Even though you hold my hand as we walk through
I feel a distance between me and you.

You tell me that they probably think I’m pretty
But why is it that I suddenly feel ******?
It didn’t look like admiration in their eye
But I brush it off with a sad sigh

I don’t bring it up for the rest of the night
But if looks could bite
These men could’ve given me rabies
But now you’ve rattled me with maybes

‘Cos maybe they want me to have their babies
(Which is a gross enough thought in itself)
But no, I pull my suspicions from the shelf
I can’t deny the wary nature of myself

Because maybe it’s a subtle stealth -
Beer by beer a racist’s inhibitions fall
My brown skin a matchstick
To their flammable racist shawl

I avoid their eyes
But feel their’s burning into my back
I am on edge and ready
Waiting for their attack.

But in the same breath
I am showered with compliments
Some of your friends tell me I’m beautiful
And that they’re glad we’re suitable.

I’m in a pub - I shouldn’t be feeling perpetual doom!
I try to focus but he still stares at me from the bar
He’s at the other end of the room
Yet it doesn’t feel all that far.

People talk to me but I barely hear
What is being said
Because a new question runs
Through my pretty brown head

It clouds my judgment
And leaves my view distorted:
Does he think I'm pretty
Or does he just want me deported?
Jing Xi Lau Sep 2019
My father disapproves of him,
Because of his color.

If he were the color yellow
Like the mid-summer sun,
Or the shade of December snow,
If he were only as tan,
As Santa Monica sand,
My father's stubbornness,
Might've waned.

He is neither sunshine,
Nor snowflake.
He is the solemn night sky,
The dark side of the moon,
Too vast to be contained,
To be ignored,
To be understood.

You see,
People who don't understand the night,
Fear it.
They fear what it holds,
What it hides.

But I am a creature of the night,
I hang myself,
Like a moon,
Over the canvas of his body.
I spread myself,
Like a blanket of stars,
Across the nakedness,
Of the night.

My father disapproves of him,
Because of his color.
He thinks I'll change my mind,
But wait till he reads this poem.
I hear
Hindi
In the hallway—
Suddenly
My American
Lips
Can taste
The masala
In your kiss;
I smile
And let the memory
Travel
Across the sea
Where it belongs
tempest Jul 2018
can he see the blood rush to my cheeks despite having skin darker than his?
does he see my skin as a barrier or an invitation?
if he locked his fingers with mine, would he see the contrast between our colors as a masterpiece of beauty or a masterpiece of shame?
if he placed his lips on mine, would he understand my relief that something as natural as melanin (or lack thereof) couldn't restrain love?
i'll never have my answers because i'm afraid of

skin.
so this is actually the first draft of skin (2), which has been posted a bit earlier on my profile. I love both versions so much, which is why both of them still exist. I decided to write a second poem about this issue just because I felt this particular one didn’t emulate the level of fear that I wanted to get across to readers when it comes to interracial attraction.
tempest Jun 2018
every person on this earth
has got a certain fear
spiders incite panic,
public speaking invokes tears

mine isn't too uncommon,
but only some women can relate
it's a special kind of fear
to a special kind of hate

it wasn't whispered in my ear
it's just something that i know
it's been ingrained since my beginning,
a part of how society flows

you see, i'm afraid of a guy.
or rather, his rejection
afraid i'm not enough
because i'm darker in complexion

did you know his hands are white?

that's why around him, my skin burns
instead of reciting numbers and letters,
what if it's racism that he learned?

i was taught to admire passions, looks, and intellectual minds
if only to darker women,
love could prove to be more kind

im 18 in year '18 but it feels like '63
hiding feelings from a whitey cause ****** is defined as me
© tempest p
Elliott Mar 2018
And when her eyes turned,
brown to blue,
I drowned in them
navigating too far into the oceans

She blamed herself
took matters into her very own
pale
impish
hands

And before they could arrest her,
She buried herself
into the the eyes of her lover,
smudged in soil,

Maybe that's why I loved her.
Wowsers.
PoeticPresident Oct 2017
Sunny days bring smiles on faces
Girls with ***** shorts and sunglasses
Guys with muscle tops or floral hemps and snapback caps
September 19th was sunny
Well, that's until the clouds acuated the skies
and made all the smile evacuate to dystopia
This was an apocalypse
in my parent's house,
a place I used to call home
My father, Christopher
was the devil, Lucifer
and my mother was an angel with wings-
a delightful servant of Venus,
the goddess of love
Only, she couldn't fly
Not mentally, not physically and definitely not verbally
Her vocal chords were shaking as she passed her voice to my dad
She was the rainbow and sunshine
that was no longer divine
it was cryin’
while the devil was roarin’
as if he was a god
in which he was, but only of hell
He omitted fire but this time, it was cold
So cold that a tornado spun around the dining room
as I sat there, frozen, and watched like a snowman
The pupils of my eight year old eyes
witnessed the ending of a love I thought was immortal
A love that I used to think was magical
and illiterate
A love that formed in two hearts that bided into one
on their own
without the education of authorities
This was apartheid!,
and my parents were illegally married
A white European knight in shining armour
to an African goddess with attractive eyes
I started to believe that my mind
used to be a foolish thrall to the world of perfect love
But now I believe that it’s a vendee
who bought the saying, “love is blind”
I was a child who no longer believed
in the love of mankind
I had trouble finding myself
‘cause faith is to believe what you cannot see
and self-love was nowhere in sight
Now love is something I have to draw
and I cannot neutralize it
with optimism ‘cause my world was at an apocalypse
when the sun was supposed to be out...
It's quite difficult to accept that your parents, who you loved both dearly, are going to divorce. The first time you see them fighting as a child actually turns out to be the last. They've been fighting for quite some time, just behind closed doors because they didn't want to scare you or get you worried. You find it difficult to understand why they don't sleep in the same bed or live under the same roof. Only later on in life, you realise what has happened. This poem expresses the thoughts of a teenager who finally knows and understands what happened to the two heroes of her life.
Devin Ortiz Dec 2016
Oh my, am I humbled
Loving v. Virginia
History that is blood

Do you hear the pumping
Oh man, I feel it now
Riding on the winds of change
Jason Harris Sep 2016
You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when on that day you proclaimed
to have learned nothing and on that
day Dr. A. held no doctorate degree.

You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when bodies: sick, overweight, in-shape
fell from buildings and into to TV screens
into history books, only to be stuck forever

in a New York newsreel in their Tuesday
outfits with Monday night’s love and touch
brewing, aged and earthy, from their falling
lives. If you listen closely on the eve of this day

the wind still whispers their scent of perfume
trails, still whispers what really happened
that busy day in the clouds, in the sky.
I was ten and can’t recall where I was

or in whose company but like the waters
stretched between Europe, Africa, and the
America’s, I was (am) far removed, was (am)
still putting together the blue-black lineage

of my triangular history that drowned
in the salty waters stretched, flowing
between three continents. But fifteen
years later, we (you and I) have overcome

the billowing black clouds of Tuesdays
the Monday night upsets, and the routed
maritime of our ancestors. 15 years later
you are still alive with your blue eyes

and clear face, are still four years my senior
are still my guiding light and sight of sun.
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