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#correctness
I left the pack Cause of too many whispers And all of the filters. You want the listeners And I want the strippers They are not prisoners They are practitioners Unlike you “thinkers” You gossip like sisters. Talking **** in your slippers And all I hear are whimpers From all these high up sinners Reading made up scriptures.
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Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 10:48 AM UTC
facade
Say it now Before the verbal amputation And issue of an apology for Three little words Expressed from the heart Given freely Never to take back But a world around us Scrutinizes our every move Smacking on the hand When we've done the unthinkable And said something Against their liking Take it on the chin Take it in the eye They can't keep us From how we truly feel
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Dec 16, 2019
Dec 16, 2019 at 11:36 AM UTC
Love in the Time of Political Correctness
"oh goodness me" "oh sorry" "please" "excuse me" "sir" "pardon" "ma'am" "gosh **** weeds" "yikers bees!" my tongue how you censor me around my Christian society but how I wish I could say ****
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Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 11:59 PM UTC
Pardon my Tongue
* I am not a poised person | Nor am I a delight to hear | But I am a truth warrior |a knight for deeper meaning |and a contender for reality |So I speak my restless mind |on the matters that matter most \ and for this I am sutured. | my mouth sewn shut | by the red and yellow tape; |political correctness / diminishing the truth |until nothing is ever said |And I weep . Silent tears
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Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 2:13 PM UTC
Sti _-_-_-_-ches
Everything can look       like a poem   The only thing        you need   is to put enough    ******* spacebars   to make it look          like                  one
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Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
Po etry
An Orwellian term used by self-righteous hypocrites hiding behind a cloak of morality. Wake up. Political correctness controls the narrative by shaming and suppressing. It forces upon us the “one true” ideological orthodoxy. It eliminates decent and makes people lie and self-censor their words. Stand up. We must allow others to speak and voice their thoughts. Some might be stupid, so let’s expose their faults. Some might be outrageous, so let’s pause and defuse. Some might be hurtful and mean so let’s self-reflect and steel ourselves. Speak up. Political correctness leads to sameness contrary to the individualism it pretends to protect. It is a road into slavery. First the slavery of your mind and later slavery of your body.
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Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:46 AM UTC
Political Correctness
People always complain about political correctness Unless it's something important to them Then they expect you to use empathetic indirectness As to not hurt the feelings of men I'm a homosexual talking to a stranger They don't detect this They say ****** and unleash my anger They don't expect this They were expecting me to be socially correct To their bigoted views They can't handle it when their hatred reflects And they're given their due I can't ask for a simple date Or mention anything about God I can't ask for their ****** state That would imply that they're flawed Yet they say I'm easily offended But their argument is upended When there are many topics I must avoid Or hedge around Otherwise they will get easily annoyed And wear a frown People say Donald Trump is politically incorrect But that's not true He's a hateful piece of **** People confuse that with political incorrectness But if about half the people who vote are pieces of **** Can that really be said to be incorrect? The idea of the president being politically incorrect is absurd By virtue of being elected his politics are being endorsed And endorsement is what comprises political correctness He may know nothing of governance or diplomacy But he was correct when it came to politics I live in a country where I can say pretty much whatever I want And then everyone else can react however they want To be angry at someone's reaction is its own political correctness They're just mad it's not their own specific politics being adhered to So when people mention political correctness I laugh It's a defensively reflexive path When they live an unexamined life But then complain about their plight They think they're hated because they're white They think they're hated because they're right I dislike them because they have low empathy So I don't want to be near that Because their hatred starts to enter me When they call me a queer *** Then they expect me to love it But instead I tell them to shove it They tell me I'm being politically correct Maybe it's their own lives they should inspect
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Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
Political Correctness
People always complain about political correctness Unless it's something important to them Then they expect you to use empathetic indirectness As to not hurt the feelings of men I'm a homosexual talking to a stranger They don't detect this They say ****** and unleash my anger They don't expect this They were expecting me to be socially correct To their bigoted views They can't handle it when their hatred reflects And they're given their due I can't ask for a simple date Or mention anything about God I can't ask for their ****** state That would imply that they're flawed Yet they say I'm easily offended But their argument is upended When there are many topics I must avoid Or hedge around Otherwise they will get easily annoyed And wear a frown People say Donald Trump is politically incorrect But that's not true He's a hateful piece of **** People confuse that with political incorrectness But if about half the people who vote are pieces of **** Can that really be said to be incorrect? The idea of the president being politically incorrect is absurd By virtue of being elected his politics are being endorsed And endorsement is what comprises political correctness He may know nothing of governance or diplomacy But he was correct when it came to politics I live in a country where I can say pretty much whatever I want And then everyone else can react however they want To be angry at someone's reaction is its own political correctness They're just mad it's not their own specific politics being adhered to So when people mention political correctness I laugh It's a defensively reflexive path When they live an unexamined life But then complain about their plight They think they're hated because they're white They think they're hated because they're right I dislike them because they have low empathy So I don't want to be near that Because their hatred starts to enter me When they call me a queer *** Then they expect me to love it But instead I tell them to shove it They tell me I'm being politically correct Maybe it's their own lives they should inspect
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Modernism did away with Enlightenment thinking duality and all, Hegel and all in case no one noticed the way kpop replaced american pop---thank god--- the way Plato replaced Jesus--- Christians are teaching Socratic philosophy & don’t know it---wtf---Postmodernism did away with all that and AI does away w/ nothing--- The mass media is a collective prophet Symbols shine like the sun Every time I try to kiss her Fourteen-year-old doppelganger--- And who knows what will replace the future, Schopenhauer knew, Nietzsche knew--- Emerson knew, Brigitte Bardot knew--- Kerouac knew, Dylan knows but he’s not telling--- No one will listen to him, They’re all waiting for Plato thinking it’s Jesus--- I’m a Neoplatonist myself, therefore not deluded by the cereal-like pablum that passes for the mundane ******** of late-night television in your brain--- Pimping their little Asian ***** is not politically correct and may be a crime---
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Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
How Modernism Did Away w/ the Enlightenment
I was born in a city and time where and when things were described by their name in the name of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty depicting society as it was fearing nothing while no one took offence, as none was intended in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self- deprecating humour. In the countryside village peasants called my father the Greek, as there were no aliens other than us and the English man who lived down the valley. Black skins only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite populations they had never seen. Italians were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams, though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did. First strange faces appeared for myths to become realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers, Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders, Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops, Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs, employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals. Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some. Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures of tourists at night when the gypsies come out of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking pockets on public transports everybody knows, signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores. Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians, Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise themselves as clandestine street vendors of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine, poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon. Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait, scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.
0
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
The Unpolitical Correctness of Truth
I was born in a city and time where and when things were described by their name in the name of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty depicting society as it was fearing nothing while no one took offence, as none was intended in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self- deprecating humour. In the countryside village peasants called my father the Greek, as there were no aliens other than us and the English man who lived down the valley. Black skins only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite populations they had never seen. Italians were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams, though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did. First strange faces appeared for myths to become realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers, Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders, Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops, Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs, employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals. Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some. Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures of tourists at night when the gypsies come out of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking pockets on public transports everybody knows, signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores. Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians, Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise themselves as clandestine street vendors of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine, poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon. Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait, scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.
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What does it mean To be a man Or a woman ? Does a man Become less male And more female If an accident reminiscent Of one Lemony Snicket Led to the removal of One ugly piece of flesh ? Does a woman Become more of a woman When the internal organs Begin reproduction According to the textbooks ? Which part of You is wrong When there is a discrepancy Between brain and ****** ? Or is there greater beauty In uncertainty and ambiguity As liberal and conservative admit In humility, that In truth “I don’t know” ?
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Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 6:29 AM UTC
Gender questions
If you find yourself unable To comprehend the notion That is Political Correctness And believe that outrage is The result of being offended Rather than the consequences Held behind the power of words I might believe you to be an ******* If you are unable to control a pathological Need to spew hate and ignorance from your tongue And find that comparable to human suffering Or some divine right that has been stolen I again believe that you are likely an ******* As a person, who by his own privilege Was fat with ignorance, having been spoon fed Lies and deceit as a result of words which are used And abused to oppress and suppress, Manipulating The masses to paint people as this, that or the other I am only further enraged at this sacrificial death of knowledge. What thought can you not express in this politically correct world? What words that are not racial, sexually or otherwise charged, Can you not expel from your chest? Without hiding behind the guise of mental oppression, what can You truly wish to say that you have felt you cannot? The truth of that matter is not what is permitted. It is that there is less validation in your hate. And you attribute this to someone simply being offended.
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Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
Political Correctness
This poem is green Would you buy this poem? This poem is do-it-yourself backyard garden green. This poem is save the world give peas a chance green; this poem is azure sky squeezing the golden sun all over the world green. Could you buy this poem? This poem is apples and oranges farmer’s artist market green. This poem has leaves as pillows and blankets as grass; this poem is a lil’ patch of green earth purchase me plot; this poem is 100% recyclable disposable, sustainable (after all it has gotten this far) You should buy this poem. This poem is green, its’ tyro-technics shooting out of asphalt cracks. This poem is a snot-nosed brat full of SASS (short attention span sentences) This poem is the hope of audacity. This poem is fumbling with bra straps and tongue-tied techniques, this poem isn’t old enough to know any better, it’s wet behind the ears green petting zoo pellets green willing to SCREAM green but not part of a gang green this poem is all alone with its words Buy this poem? This poem is green Its envious of solar panel studios with eyes on the price of a venti economy This poem is the green-eyed monster of product placement pick-o-the profit This poem WANTS to make consumer obedience the easy culprit. But really… This poem just wishes it could sing Won’t you buy this poem? This poem is green. This poem has no half-life, shelf life or night life. This poem exists solely in this moment of your imagination. This poem has milk carton desperation. This poem is begging for change. This poem was stolen from all of you. This poem is not for sale. Buy This Poem!
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Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
Buy This Poem
This poem is green Would you buy this poem? This poem is do-it-yourself backyard garden green. This poem is save the world give peas a chance green; this poem is azure sky squeezing the golden sun all over the world green. Could you buy this poem? This poem is apples and oranges farmer’s artist market green. This poem has leaves as pillows and blankets as grass; this poem is a lil’ patch of green earth purchase me plot; this poem is 100% recyclable disposable, sustainable (after all it has gotten this far) You should buy this poem. This poem is green, its’ tyro-technics shooting out of asphalt cracks. This poem is a snot-nosed brat full of SASS (short attention span sentences) This poem is the hope of audacity. This poem is fumbling with bra straps and tongue-tied techniques, this poem isn’t old enough to know any better, it’s wet behind the ears green petting zoo pellets green willing to SCREAM green but not part of a gang green this poem is all alone with its words Buy this poem? This poem is green Its envious of solar panel studios with eyes on the price of a venti economy This poem is the green-eyed monster of product placement pick-o-the profit This poem WANTS to make consumer obedience the easy culprit. But really… This poem just wishes it could sing Won’t you buy this poem? This poem is green. This poem has no half-life, shelf life or night life. This poem exists solely in this moment of your imagination. This poem has milk carton desperation. This poem is begging for change. This poem was stolen from all of you. This poem is not for sale. Buy This Poem!
Continue reading...
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