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Amoy Feb 2018

The burning sensation of those word were hard to digest
Sorrow, Tear, How **** can I be
Black is Beauty I say…to whom they say

Midnight! Midnight!.. you are as dark as Midnight
I'm haunted by those words, As they stuck to me like fresh sap from a tree..
I’m drowning, I’m drowning, I can’t get free, those words will forever trail me..

They trailed me; they jarred me, Blackie Tutu! Blackie Tutu!
How can kids be so cruel using skin color as a tool
I held my own and stayed cool for I knew has long I was in this school my fate was doom.

Pickey-Pickey head! was the melody of the song
I listened allowing the word to sink into my soul
The beat made me sick and I knew this one would also stick
I Looked up to the sky wondering why
No! No! No! Woman don’t cry
Be an African and hold your pride…

Hands by my side, I held my head up high
I found the fight within me, Stone faced Killer bee
I faced the music and it set me free
On the attack I had them flee…using word to conquer thee
I carried on knowing freedom wasn’t free and then
Like bolt of lightning it occurred me  
To defeat them I had to BELIEVE in ME
He approaches, from a completely different background.
He sees an odd, irregular image
Minding its own business.

He approaches and the image moves.
The irregular image faces him as he admires it.
It is smothered in beauty,
So much, but he doesn't understand it.

She, the image, sees him too.
She falls in love with his body's outline,
But when he steps into the light,
She doesn't understand her love anymore.

Mutual love was clouded by race.

Eventually, they learned to love their differences.
They created art through their differences;
Contrasting colours thrived in their newly ordained similarities - obtained through love.

Multi-racial relationships are the artwork of humankind.
Multi-racial relationships excite me. They remind me that even the most different people can still thrive together despite their differences. But, I'm not one to partake because I feel that it's too much for me. There's a huge amount of responsibility needed in respect and consideration.
Alfa Oct 2018
How do you make your rice?
is it in a ***? a pan? steamed? heated? not at all?

mine is in a frying ***.

Yellow, with pollo from the fresh market.
Peas, y frijoles on the side.

Mix it up, eat it, keep it for later.

Burn the bottom so you can get la chemada part.

If you like the chemada part, not everyone does.
A poem about my personal views on American society. How a bunch of different cultures live together which is why I make references to rice, as different types of rice making shows what culture you come from. I say I like mine in a "frying ***" because that's how I see America, a frying *** and not a "melting ***" as they say. Whereas a melting *** mixes cultures well, a frying *** keeps people at the bottom "burnt" like "chemada" (burnt rice at the bottom of the pan).
Desmond the poet Sep 2017
Oh, you seed of mankind.
You who reside in the same Coloured white *****.
You carry the ***-determining chromosome.
Before union with female egg, human colour was same.
After fertilization, emerged different coloured humans.

Oh melanin, you who determine our skin colour.
You went as far as differentiating our hair colour.
What have you done?
Are you to blame for racial discrimination?
Maybe blame theory of evolution.

Oh no I blame you mankind.
God gave men brains of a kind.
The kind, that knows wrong from right.
In the image of God, mankind was created.
Colour was not restricted.

I urge mankind across all racial groups.
A plead to all *** groups.

There’s more to what you see in the mirror.
It was microscopically a seed within white *****.
We might differ racially, men and women.
We came from same coloured seed.
Riley June Mar 2018
i existed and that made you angry
i was loved and that made you angrier
i got your autograph on my body

you feel entitled to power
you look at me like some rotting trash
you hate me because you learned to

i go to school and learn all i can
i pray for my family to stay safe
i cry clutching on to the hope i might grow up

you paint people with your brush
you mould and manipulate masses
you make art only Lucifer would enjoy

i am always running in fear
i never look you in the eyes in case your disgusted by their colour
i cause the sky to rain and soak every cheek

you guard my success with brutal force
you take spirit and bottle it away to gather dust
you took my life but you still wear your uniform
cassie marie Oct 2017
In this place we call home I swear none of us have the right morals to look up to and we’re all on social media wishing for acceptance in the for of likes and followers and views and friends on snapchat. In this place we call home were banning people from their dreams and are taken away from their families and are laughed at because of their color on the outside and not by the inside on the space of their hearts and is separated by who they pray to and how they celebrate their life. In this place we call home, we all have messed up minds.
the words just kinda flowed out of me and this is what happened
PoeticPresident Jun 2017
My burden is too heavy to carry
People of my race are dying
One can't walk on the side of the road
without having a bullet pierce
through their melanin bodies
or brown sugar
I can't accept the violence
I demand sacrifice to the wrong guidance
'Cause I can't sit and cry with a tissue
preparing a eulogy
for my blood brother and sister
who've been shot by the minority
I step foot on this ground
and declare an apology
***** me not
for I am a human
Can't you see the protests ?
This is not a contest
What happened to the freedom knot ?

Equality and diversity?
- I can't accept the current adversity
Rights and responsibilities?
- But black beings are bein exposed
to vulnerability
Rules and regulations?
- I thought we had amalgamation

World War III ?
No ...
I want us to be free
Viki More Dec 2016
I Painted Myself Black..

He felt awkward and embarrassed
Hesitant to talk or smile, may be stressed?

O he is dark as ****! people would say,
But he never had them much attention to pay.

He hid behind trees and watched us play,
He might have wished to be on the ground some way.

I gazed at him and smiled with delight,
But with fright, he turned away the sight.

So next day I painted myself black,
The beautiful color we people lack!

He stared at me for a while and then laughed
O what a innocence, I too laughed..

I approached him and pulled him on the ground,
Freeing him from the racial rope he was bound.

I saw him confident, and we played for very long,
Feeling happy and singing that song...

I painted myself black... I painted myself black..

O his happiness was the reason, I painted myself black...
Brent Kincaid Oct 2016
This is the tale of the
Kid’s doll, the wallygog.
A doll meant to look like
A pale pitiful human hog
With a clammy white body
With wimpy yellow hair
And blue button eyes,
And cotton belly to spare.

It is so unattractive that
It must be that this toy
Is meant to insult them,
White girls and boys,
So that playing with it
Puts them in their place
As objects of ridicule
Laughs in the white face.

Because look how sad,
With wan sewn-open lips
And imitation Gap clothes
Sewn to shoulder and hip.
How foolish and rude
Is this toy made by fools.
Who can truly ignore
What is meant by this tool?

Yet is so popular now
The silly Wallygog today;
Some children refuse
As they grow, to set it away.
They carry it around
And it leaves me agog
That they never understand
What it means, this Wallygog.
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