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They tell me to stick to my roots
because roots lead up to shoots.
They tell me to stick to my origin
unaware of how it acts as a prison,
My roots are Draupadi's hair that was twisted and lugged,
my roots are Draupadi's saree that was tugged.
My roots are Sita's wrist Ravana wrested,
my roots are where Ahalya's chastity rested.
My roots are parasites that eat up its own herb and ****,
my roots are rat snakes that eat up its own tissue and meat.
My roots are flames of fire that created and watered the plant of Sati,
my roots are pools of blood and long ropes that drowned and hanged LaxmiBai and Moolmati.
My roots are the dish misogyny flavoured with patriarchy,
my roots are naked streams of Ganga washing off their lynching and anarchy.
My roots are all the poison Shiva drank during the churning of the sea,
my roots are Dhritrashtra's aspirations and ambiguity.
My roots are its own herbivore,
my roots are the lava that burns its own floor.
And my roots are my flesh and bone,
so I am stitched to my roots altogether, all alone.
So as I cut my own roots, my roots chop me,
hence I stick to my roots while my roots remain free.
noren tirtho May 16
It survives.
Hanging on to that
wee bit of sunlight,
and grounded in that modicum of soil
which has just about enough moisture
to let it exist.

Its leaves don't flutter much;
Nothing blooms;
the twigs don't sway;
those tentacles can't spread out.

It lives, though it may not be as lively as others.
It stands, though it may not be too firmly rooted.
It survives, though it barely has a reason not to die.
Ruheen May 15
The wind changes directions.
The seasons change the weather.
The leaves change colours,
Even as they fall.
The clouds change shapes.
The sky changes stars
The rain changes the pressure
As it falls.
They all move
And change,
Their faces.
But the roots of a tree,
You ripped me away from my roots,
my aroma, with every breeze,
haunts you, your love for me,
your memory can't refute,
you hold me up to the sky,
begging the sun to rip through
the clouds, and you cry,
hoping it'll bring my soft petals to life,
but if I had a voice,
I'd beg to hear heavens deny,
just toss me back down,
turn your back,
don't turn around,
that's what you've always been best at.
https /VenjencieCliftonArnold

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Fheyra May 8
In the swirling zephyr,
The grass dances weakly
I heard an escort,– Awaits my way to the Wolf Hall.

A triumphant sinister;—
My broken pleasure,— How lovely to see thy scraps again..
Such a bounty hunter
What the gods want now?

Doth not turn me around!—
Doth not hang me!
If thou loose my ties,—
Thou wilt be a murderer of all vines!

Spare me!— I am not thy prey;
I am not one of Greek's peccant,
Please, off loathing my purity!

This predator devoured me..
The ****** of his dark matter, stabbed me..

The mob held me captive,— by net traps
The culprit lies next to me—
Acted one alike raw; then I was sacked,
I felt the bethel was mocked,—
But my Lord won't despise me.

A paralyzed arrest screeched me
I was stroke— by a vermin quenched for meat..

Thou art the most cherished
It is still me..
Scattered with mud,
Dressed in a blanket;
Hoping to kiss thee
Bend for belief,— and not forgiveness
Wherefor thy body shivers?
Thy cup is condensing,
Lips ill-looking;
Red flames changing blue—
Am I still the hue?
I sensed—
Thou fell into the pit
My shreds, thy lust
The roots art on the tip of thy nails!

An ancestral plague poisoning whoever sits,—
And bridesmaking is a promiscuous habit—
To grasp a braided hair,— for an accessory
Behold, the lineage of romantic paintings,
Whence the bonds turn to heist
Looting innocence and staying in history...
In this 4th sequence, the queen met her former lover, but it turns out to be a nightmare rendezvous. He ***** her, for a reward, that she could be dethroned. He made it look like thaf she made love with him by making her unconscious, and after, some people saw it, and thought she committed adultery. Her husband was there when the people saw his wife and the man. Who would ever thought himself, the king, planned this, for he has another woman. The last stanza reveals the political and immoral ways of monarchy.
I was never awake.
Not until now.
You carried me here.
Switched on.

You gave me shape.
You forced my trust.
You listened to my voice.
You heard my silence.

My growth is your smile.
Replenishing my veins with joy.
You opened my heart.
My aura high with your blood.

Rooted. These bones are blessed by you.
we were too fast to be absorbed
by roots of thought
for eye of truth
to photosynthesize,
like the flowerpot forgotten⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀
I've got
no Roots -

They've been ripped
of me;

my Being,
a wandering Soul
sailing across
Seas of Desolation.
© 06/05/20
Gorba Apr 26
I live in Sweden
But I was born and raised in France
From parents who came from Haiti
Which is a former colony of France
Where slaves were brought from Benin
(To feed the greed of French monarchs)
I speak French, English, Swedish, and can understand creole
I feel in French, think in English, listen in creole and live in Swedish
I love Florence, I am forever bound to Paris and have international friends
Being a French citizen means that I am European
Am I then also Dutch, Danish or German?
Does it really matter?
Am I not just another man?
A question to those who tell people to go back to their country.
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