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girl diffused Oct 2017
let me remind you:
know that i am the scream
i am the protest
i am the revolution
i am the awakening
of every black leader
every protester
every revolutionist
every poet
every writer
that has breathed and lived and paved paths
and immortalized and cut scathing with their art
that has cut swaths through rivers
that have tunneled through caves
that have smeared wet earth on their faces
that have picked through the foliage on mountains
know that i am every woman who has bled for her child
know that i am every foreign tongue that has unbound us
know that i am every unshackled and raised fist
know that i am a woman
know that i am a black woman
i am every black queen
i am not a display
i am not an object
i am not something to be coveted
you have no right to salivate over me
you have no right to stitch lust into my skin
you have no right
let me remind you:
i am a black woman
soft, wild, and free
I changed this a bit from what it was before. I ended up revising the capitalized "I" and making them all lowercase for the sake of cohesion. This is meant to be an empowering piece. It's old. At the time I wrote it I was reading Warsan Shire. Like me and so many other 1st-generation children from immigrants who are also artists or self-proclaimed or "budding," her work at some point deals with the topic of immigration, having immigrant parents, and also it deals with being a woman who is black. It deals with womanhood too.

A lot of my work is very romantic, dark, I would say cutting in some spaces. It has some macabre imagery, a lot of it is intentionally repetitious. A vast majority of it is also deeply personal. They are individual poetic narratives and I think poetry should first and foremost be about that poet's personal experience. Maybe I will write a poem that can be collectively about my race's experience, until then, what ever comes out, will come out.

This is, like Warsan's work, applicable to any other black woman. We quietly feel the need to assert and remind others of our worth, we quietly remind ourselves of our worth, we have to take part in a ******, mental, spiritual, and emotional evolution to love ourselves in a society that does not and has not historically loved us. It still doesn't.

This poem comes from that part inside of me that has felt this way. I've had partners most of whom were not of my race, most of them Caucasian, and some were fascinated with my being 1st-generation "somethingsomething" or "Caribbean."

I'm proud of my heritage and I always maintained and will maintain that. However, despite having been with accepting partners, accepting men and friends, there were some men that I felt liked me just because of my blackness or demeaned it (one did or attempted to). But this isn't just for me, it's for any woman who has felt or feels this way.

It's a reminder: you matter, you are black, you are ******* beautiful, but you are more than that outer beauty. No man can just be allowed to claim you ONLY for that.

This is my gift to every little black girl and woman
A gift from one black woman to another.
Enjoy. Xoxo.

Also, here's a link to info about Warsan Shire. I would highly recommend checking out some of her work. She's simply put, amazing.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/warsan-shire
Therese Jul 2017
you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn't you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do, love
split his head open?
you can't make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.
the poem that inspired me to start writing
It's 7:00 in the morning and the breeze is cold.
I let my feet walk into my little kitchens abode.
To boil some water from my cute little pan,
for my small kettle was broken and no more fun.

Prepping my stein for my early morning grind,
I call it coffbit's (Hobbit's Coffee) time in my old but cozy and  lovely shire.
Some like it with sugar, toffee, mocha or milk,
but still I'd prefer it brewed cause it's classic and pretty bare.

Sipping it while sitting in front of my fireplace,
to start my day with full of goodness grace.

Coffbit seems a little bit odd and prime,
but I wouldn't call it a day without my hobbit's time.
Procaffeinating at it's finest.:)
If I were a cup of black coffee you take me just the way I am.
If this were a thanksgiving dinner you'd be the turkey and I'd be the ham.

I'm the water and you're the sea
I'm the sailor and what I really mean is; you complete me. 

If this were a battery you'd be the positives and I'd be the negatives.
If I were a holiday you'd be the festive's.

If this were space you'd be the stars that form my galaxy.
If I were a driver in New York, you'd be my taxi.
If I a flower and you the bee, then it's clear to see that what I really mean is; you complete me.

One ways, u-turns, dead ends and yields, green lights, left lane merge and a squashed bug on my windshields.

If I were a Bic ballpoint pen then you would write out every sin.
If this were it, it would be the greatest love there has ever been.

Road signs and paper, fantasies and nature cannot help to say in such a little way that all I try to convey that what I really mean is; you complete me.

If I were a song you'd memorize my lyrics 
If this were February 1990 it would be Hold On by Wilson Phillips

If I were a comic book, you'd be my nerd.
If you were a photographer I'd be your bird. 

If I a cold night and you the book by a fire, then I'd be the Hobbit and you'd be my Shire.
If I a cup and you the tea then all there is left to say is...
1487 Aug 2014
“How far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?

How often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short?

Why do you find the unavailable so alluring?

Where did it begin?
What went wrong?
And who made you feel so worthless?


If they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you?

All this time, you were begging for love silently,
thinking they couldn’t hear you,
but they smelt it on you,
you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin?


And what about the others that would do anything for you,
why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?

How are you both of these women, both flighty and needful?

Where did you learn this, to want what does not want you?

Where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay?”

--Warsan Shire
Alev May 2014
Eres un caballo coriendo solitario
Y él trata de domarte
Te compara con un camino imposible
Con una casa en llamas
Dice que lo estás cegando
Que nunca podría dejarte
Olvidarte
No quiere nada excepto a ti
Lo mareas, eres irresistible
Cada mujer antes o después de ti
Está empapada en tu nombre
Llenas su boca
Sus dientes duelen con el recuerdo de tu sabor
Su cuerpo es sólo una sombra buscando la tuya
Pero siempre eres muy intensa
Atemorizante en el modo en que lo deseas
Desvergonzada y sacrificada
Él dice que ningún hombre puede compararse
Al que vive en tu mente
Y trataste de cambiar, ¿no es así?
Cerraste más tu boca
Trataste de ser más suave
Más linda
Menos volátil, menos despierta
Pero aun durmiendo podías sentirlo
Viajando lejos de ti en sus sueños
Así que, qué quieres hacer amor
¿Partir su cabeza en dos?
No puedes construir hogares de seres humanos.
Alguien debería haberte dicho eso
Y si él se quiere ir
entonces déjalo ir.
Eres estremecedora y extraña y hermosa
Algo que no todos saben cómo amar.*

― Warsan Shire

— The End —