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Ivy May 2019
Born in a place that I don't call home
Raised in a country foreign to Mom
Stained with the colors of different flags
My soul and my heart: in different lands

"Where are you from?" So simple a question
Yet always I answer with such hesitation
For how do I choose from different parts
Of the whole that is me and my colorful heart?

The answer is simple, not complex at all
It's simply a matter of wearing them all
So I'll show them all proudly: my beautiful hues
For I've finally realized I don't have to choose
Mio Seanachaidh Jan 2017
I'm proud to say that I am multiracial generational

A product of immigrants who make up America - all of their essence resides in me

Some of them helped build America, some helped making progress and change

Throughout the years, they all played a role in the American dream

I am descended from Africans, Native Americans, Europeans, and Asians

A multigenerational multiracial - I am more than what I seem
I'm a product of immigrants who helped create America
Julie Grenness Jul 2016
Bad news,
For all of you,
It's 2016 in Australia,
Multicultural success or failure?
A new culture of racism,
Paranoia driving a schism,
In our lucky country we stand
For equality, a concept grand,
Today, let's have no discrimination,
A day of Peace, across our nation,
Yes, it's 2016  in Australia,
Multicultural success or failure?
Feedback welcome, a topical comment.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♦   ♦   ♦

She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.
Ash Saveman Apr 2015
**** or ****?
English or Swedish?
It doesn't matter

A person who sleeps around looking for love. Their body is no longer their own.

I no longer have love of my own. No one cares for me except for what I can provide for them. Sleeping around looking for love. Yet I get no gratification besides the others reaction. I hate myself for not having a *** drive.

End. The finale. Nothing left. All used up.

I am a hollow shell. There is nothing but sadness and hurt left. I'm all used up with nothing to give. The trash of humanity.

**** or ****,
It doesn't matter
They are both me
Wuji Seshat Oct 2014
I don’t know the etiquette
of how eyes meet or for the first time
if they sparkle especially or

if I wore glasses the first time we met
I know I saw you with my intrinsic
looking as if I could pierce
your inner beauty, nor am I biased

I don’t know the business of eyes
beauty has been so over-rated
for so long, thanks to an evolution

but I know the last time
I look inside my heart, you’ll be there
with Asian eyes as deep as
India, China, Japan, Korea

so distinct like laughter of another culture
i don’t know the etiquette of eyes
but mine are drunk brown

not twin-cold blue or milk of salt
but chesnut-star, desire with the tip
of reaching across the universe.

— The End —