Mr Passerby Mar 15
What is everyday life
What is everyday life
What is everyday life
When can I pursue something that belongs to me
and only me

Why is it that under oppression
I suffer more humility
Why can't I do something original
When my creativity is more than capable
Why do I submit to fear
When I can fight back

I can't
All to no avail
I've come to serve and worship fear
I've adjusted my life according to fear
I do everything to ignore fear
Because fear is God itself.
Charice would tell her boyfriend,
That she was
Feeling sexy,
Take off all her clothes,
And command him
To photographer her
In the most sensual poses
She could imagine,
At other times,
Charice would put on her
Well-worn leather bomber  jacket and sunglasses
And head out on to the streets with her camera
In search of images
Of the downtrodden and the oppressed....
People and places
Which had been left behind
By the forces of gentrification
And "economic progress".
Charice saw no contradiction
Between these two aspects of herself.
They were just different ways
To get  in touch
With the Goddess within.
Wicked Mar 4
When things are always going wrong
you start to lose faith.
My faith in God is waning.
A God who loves his people,
wants them to live,
to be happy,
a loving God,
would let so many horrific things happen.
He let my heart be shattered.
He made me autistic.
He made me with Tourette’s.
He let my parents fall out of love.
He took my best friend.
I’ve lost faith in the god of deathless death,
pain, loss, and oppression.
Emily Miller Mar 1
This is a love letter
To the African-American community.
Black, if you wish,
Or simply “neighbor”.
To the African-American community-
My people would not be here if it were not for you.
Here as in alive,
Not as in the states,
Because we came to the states to be alive,
Something that would not have been possible back home,
But you helped us stay that way,
When our trades were not accepted
By soft-palmed,
People of the US.
When we came here to escape death and oppression,
We were welcomed not by the blonde-haired, blue-eyed people we saw in the advertisements from the war,
We did not step off of the boat and into the arms of the benevolent angels we had heard of,
We came to America and found you.
African-American community,
At the time,
You hardly had a home to give,
And yet you offered it to us when we had none.
Your culture was ravaged by war and slavery,
And yet you encouraged us to preserve our’s.
African-American community,
My people came here with no English and no education,
And to the residents here,
The two are synonymous.
My family,
Though skilled in trades handed down by generations of people in our tribe,
Father to son,
And mother to daughter,
Our traditions were passed down,
But when we arrived in the new world,
We were like babes in arm,
Hardly knowing how to walk.
African-American community,
This is a thank you,
For taking my people by the hand and pressing their fingers into the soil,
Teaching us how to coax life out of it.
Teaching us how to translate our language of terracing in the mountains
To sowing in the fields,
When none would take us for work,
Season after season
Of my family hushing the mother language off the tongues of our children
So that they would sound less foreign,
More American,
Black community,
You taught my family how to prepare for a blistering Texas heat,
When they were built to withstand an Eastern chill.
Black community,
You showed my people what it was like
To build a life from the ground,
The strange,
American ground,
You took my people and led them out of the darkness of oppression and corruption
And into the light of the real American dream,
The one where people who have been beaten into the earth can rise up like a Phoenix.
Black community,
You showed us what to do with the dirt and the sandy loam
Until we built upon it churches,
Harvested from it sustenance,
And within it,
Buried our dead.
Black community,
This is a love letter,
Because love is the only reason I can think of
As to why you had mercy on my battered, broken people,
Accepting our calloused hands in thanks,
As we had nothing else to offer.
This is a thank you,
From the small, inconsequential non-natives,
Round and sturdy,
And the savage language with unfamiliar roots,
From my people,
With un-American eyes,
Coal-black and slanted,
Thank you,
On behalf of my ancestors for the actions of your’s,
Thank you.
Your people were not the ones that struck the beads and herbs from our hair,
Snatched the language from our lips,
And took the ribbons tied to our shoulders and wrapped them ‘round our throats,
Choking the accent out of our mouths,
That was not you.
Within God’s walls,
Moj Boze,
Ti Bok,
The ones built on the ground you brought us to,
We are told not to condemn the descendants of those who hurt us,
But to praise that of those who did not.
So here I am,
Writing you a love letter
Because all I have to offer
Is my thanks.
My people,
Though Americanized
And void of the language and traditions that they were told to abandon,
Stand strong today,
And I,
A woman,
Just as stout and ungraceful as the tribe that bore me,
I am educated.
I not only learn English,
But I master it.
I earn my money and I keep it,
No man takes it from me,
Or refuses to sell me land because I am unmarried,
No government can remove me
And thrust me into a camp
Or a foreign country where I will not be a bother,
And although my people have been stripped of their name and placed under the color-coded category of person
On the spectrum that everyone seems to abide by,
Stood by us.
Thank you.
Liam Feb 26
My whole life is a head rush.
Have ten minutes to get ready after getting out of bed... Fuck.

Eloquent through all my bad luck.
To overcome the oppression all you have to do is speak up.

In a cheap rut.
The solemn selfish sliver of life in me wants a heaven filled with this stuff.

I feel stuck.
But I know that ropes and razors move life forward if I ever need to give up.
In life we learn,
If you fail,
Try again,
Even in education,
If you fail,
You are offered one more shot,
To reach the top,
But society, friends mock you,
In class if you fail,
You get to try again,
To take the classes again,
But it has been deemed bad,
By students and teachers alike,
It is used to threaten,
"Don't study and fail",
Makes you feel beaten,
Everyone will mock you,
The mark of failure,
Burned to the flesh,
So what was supposed,
To be a second chance,
Now is a bad glance,
From everyone,
That's just students cheat,
Because they know that they will fail,
And their reputation will fall,
So cheating is the best way,
No one wants to be left behind,
No one wants to destroy their mind,
No one wants to try again,
Just because no one will allow them.
Maida Rasool Feb 12
A girl, just a girl
Can’t go out, can’t Converse
Because I’m a girl, just a girl
I want to be heard too
I want to have the same freedom my brother does
Not bear the fear of being judged
Being told I can’t but how could I forget that
I’m a girl, just a girl
I’m supposed to sit quietly and tolerate it all
Can’t go anywhere and simply enjoy
Even out here so far from home
Because I’m a girl, just a girl
Why is it that me being a girl allows
You to make decisions for me?
Because that’s just it
I’m not just a girl!
mk Feb 2
your cheeks blush
a light red, a dark pink
and i think to myself
maybe it's time
that i wash off the
oppression from your skin
the colonial violence
and the crimes against humanity
your eyes are a certain kind
of blue that i always
associated with privilege and pain
but maybe there's more to them
the ocean under the moon
the poppies mid-june
you burn under the sun
but maybe that isn't a punishment from God
instead a blessing from the
God of Sun who loves you
so much that She can't help but
kiss you just a little too long
your white skin speaks
of your history with your all too obvious
scars and bruises that shine
(you couldn't ever see mine)
maybe they are not from the wars you started
but the ones you fought
protecting yourself from your
own demons
while you button your shirt,
i see the light shadow of blonde
clean-shaven, button-up in a suit
white men with power over me
white men who want to hurt me
i am the enemy, i think.
he is the enemy, i think.
they are the enemy, i think.
or maybe-
maybe he is the midnights turned morning
the coffee and the cream cheese
the husband
the father
the start of a revolution
colored light brown, dark white
the lineage that is not of oppressors
the lineage that is not of the oppressed
the lineage
that is us-
survivors, fighters, or simply-
just two kids in love.
revisiting my colonial past and peeking a glance at my romantic future
Brent Kincaid Jan 31
They didn’t take our rights,
We let them.
They didn’t steal our taxes,
We let them.
They didn’t jigger the laws,
We helped them.
They didn’t become bigots,
They always were.
They didn’t change into crooks,
They always were.
They didn’t take our birthrights,
We surrendered them.
They didn’t arrest criminals,
They arrested us.
They didn’t starve bad guys,
They starved children.
They didn’t steal our Social Security,
They stole all of our security.
They didn’t cancel our insurance,
They gave it to themselves.
They didn’t refuse to raise our wages,
They raised their own.
They didn’t just criminalize us,
They deified themselves.
kidbiko Jan 26
just as a riot is the language of the unheard
your greed is the consumer of your hollow soul
as you frolic in abundance,
you feed your own destruction with oppression and scarcity

but soon...
soon indeed,
rabid with neglect
dead and deaf to cries for mercy they know all too well
the rich will be eaten by the poor
Next page