"categorized" poems
What's the difference between slavery and having dogs?
I mean when they do good we give them treats
same as when a slave does good we give them small incentives
when they are bad we punish them
the same thing with human slaves
we either are good dog lovers or dog abusers
the same as good masters and bad masters
we transport them numerously
the same with human slaves
we breed them
the same with human slaves
we give them this food called "dog food"
which is a low quality food given to human slaves
and the most obvious of all is dog collars and chains as to categorized them as property and to subconsciously "oppressed" them.
So is having a dog wrong?
A lot of people seem to treat dogs correctly
the dogs seems nice and happy
So was slavery okay?
I really don't know
You decide...
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
The already preset disposition of being Asian.
I must've been accidentally mixed in the wrong laundry basket,
because they tell me I'm white-washed.
Born with foreign looks but a native tongue
my birth certificate calls me *****
I would be the blonde-hair-blue-eyes of a country on the other side of the world
but here,
I'm still considered an immigrant
in my own home.
When you are Asian-American,
you are also the stereotypes that trail your title.
You are sushi
You are jackie-chan
You are karate
You are good grades
You are the slant-eyed pignose supporting character
WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
LAND OF THE FREE, HOME OF THE BRAVE
WHERE UNITED IS TRANSLATED AS DISCRIMINATED!
BUT DON'T GET IT TWISTED, ASIANS ARE PRETTY COOL!
Excuse me straight misogynist white male,
your Godzilla type of Asian,
or my culture?
When have I
as an individual
played a character in these quote on quote American movies?
Hmm oh yeah, that's right!
I was in Fast and Furious!
Didn't I also make an appearance in Harry Potter as the cute innocent
Cho Chang?
If this also applies to you can I please have your autograph
because I'm pretty sure I've seen you star in every movie
I've ever seen.
Or at least your people, right?
Don't try to tone down the damage
I already know I'm categorized in this Asian fetish
that all you'll ever see in me is rice and anime,
nothing more, nothing less.
And if I were to become an author instead of a doctor,
I'd be considered as a social unnorm
a disgrace
but isn't it already disgraceful that in this bleached-colors world
I have lost touch of my heritage,
my roots replaced with a skeleton idea of who I'm supposed to be
I wear a mask.
My friends speak to my mom in their native language.
Sitting there,
disoriented,
lost in pronunciation
I ask my mother why she did not teach me her natural tongue.
She says,
"because you are American."
And I still do not believe her.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
yeah
you might describe me as
"annoying"
"obsessive"
"weird"
"in her own world"
but
it's only because
fictional people mean more to me
then you do
and yeah
that might be sad
but to me
it's my whole world
what happens on the screen of a tv
affects me more then
what happens in my school
and watching my favorite character die
hurts so much
and i'm so tired of being categorized
as just another fan-girl
because i feel like so much than that
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Listen to the minority’s burden
There are more than you may see
Your idea of equality
Is quite different from what I believe
The facts are alive and well
And terribly ignored
By many common folk who can not tell
What all we’ve been fighting for
Listen to our burdens
They’ve been here all along
Since the pale folks came for us
And decided they knew where we belong
Listen to my burden
I am more than my ethnicity
But no one pays attention to my character
Thank you, oh dear society
I’m not here to do your math homework
Or be the punch line of your joke
Or be the one who is categorized
As a yellow, squinty-eyed bloke
We have countless burdens
So listen to what we say
Please stop your patterns of racist jokes and ignorance
And realize that change must begin today
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
I wear the letters NYU sprawled across my chest as my individuality is asphyxiated.
Lungs choke under the weight of the added pressure.
The thought of college plus my complexion,
Equals complexed looks that ponder my intellectually-heightened direction.
Will you think a little bit more of me, with my conformity?
Attempts to better myself meet enough ignorance to even cloud the vision of God.
Segregation and alienation cause mental spasms the strength of lightening rods.
I guess you're just a product of the environment to which you were exposed.
But I'm always trying to fight the stereotype that black people are ultimately foes.
I am the ant and the kids of rich parents are magnifying glasses.
Cremating me with the solar power of son's who were taught that their existence was worth more than mine.
I lay motionless, in bottomless quick sand pits, itching to alleviate my stomach stitch, engulfed by set standards that could not be met.
I am tired of trying to be what you'd like to see.
Astute, respectable, young black man-just so you can approve of me and hopefully think that we are not all "up to no good."
Say it loud,
I'm black
And I'm,
Not going to lie,
The proud part is kinda hard to say.
Because I walk down the street and see my face in the homeless everyday.
I fill the prisons and I'm famous when the news reports crime.
And when I show up early to interviews,
they look confused to see that I,
Don’t run on Colored People's Time.
I don't hate black but I hate the fact that black means that sometimes I have to find alternate routes to success.
While other people's roads are already paved, I suffer from all the stress.
I try my best but I'm always categorized as less, then a man.
And I'm trying to change perceptions but I still feel like a visitor on American land
And the poor are physically trapped so I relate mentally.
We both suffer from the oppression and accept the hatred like it was meant to be.
Society has led you to believe that blacks are not worthy of equality
But take a long, hard look into my eyes and tell me that you don’t see my humanity.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
I feel like going back to those days,
when I could feel and not fear it.
When I didn't know the world's ways
and I didn't yet need my fighting spirit.
When I could simply have a romance,
nothing complicated or categorized,
that would come up by happenstance
with no limits needing to be devised.
I miss those days, I could awaken
find another body next to mine,
and not even be mistaken
in thinking this won't be the only time.
I miss those days with a passion,
too often I feel like I'm crashin'
straight through the mud and the dirt
all the pain and the hurt.
I render my poems inert,
when I stare in the mirror,
see myself crying and dying,
insanity getting nearer.
I one day hope to rise from it all,
stand from the ash, proud and tall,
but I know that after I do
I'll eventually once again fall.
I miss those days
in more than a million ways.
Watching my eyes glaze over
thinking about days over
again.
I flow my heart into this pen
put my soul into what I write
now and then.
I know I'll be that happy once more,
I've got that joy kept in store,
for a future when I suture
this wounded pride and mind.
I've got a stride in mind,
for when I return.
See the surprise in their faces,
I bet they thought I would burn
up in the anger like butane.
I'm just too hard to contain
and I walk through cold rain,
thinking about once upon a time,
through sweat and grime,
You were mine, I was yours,
now it's vice versa.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
The dichotomy of purgatory is sprinkled with the delights and disciplines of a fretful uncertainty and steam locomotives can sound menacing when their pistons seek to establish torque on those rails of pursued destination with mesmerizing force.
I know that time is like a fondling excitement, where constellations of perceived energy fields become intellectually categorized into mechanical parts of a metaphysical ******
Universal parameters of death may generate mischievous laughter, which resound throughout the silent galaxies of cosmological meadows.
I have to say that geometrical co-ordinates automatically invoke thoughts of plain paper and hot chocolate – small figments of homosapien pastures where grazing is not a realistic occurrence.
As we perceive the eternal impressions of epistemological nihilism, let us play the game of religious patience on this checkered board of architectural bliss.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
***** **** ***
Terms that we all know
Which only goes to show
The depths to which men go
To shame women although
They have mothers who
Get categorized that way too
But they act like who knew
***** **** ***
It has a certain flow
On and on we go
Tryin’ to bring ‘em low
But it’s not fair and yo
We need to take it slow
Before those labels stick
Let’s change our rhetoric
***** **** ***
People that we know
Use it frequently although
It shouldn’t be that way but yo
Guess that’s just how it go
We use it for ammo
When we refuse to grow
Change sometimes is slow
***** **** ***
Are terms that havta go
Why hold ‘em in escrow
For the sake of puttin’ on a show
Of put downs that’s below
The ladies we bestow
Those names on even though
They’ve become status quo
Cedric McClester. Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
Oftentimes I find myself having these random bubble bursts of thoughts-I want to learn Sanskrit…..what? Where does that even come from? Or Hey! Learning to sew would be neat. Or you know, I could really benefit from reading the newspaper.
And the thing that I struggle to understand is that when I have thoughts like this, is this an attempt to discover more of me or is this me trying to force an idea onto myself that isn’t actually me, but what I think I would like to be...
Think about it. If you came out of the womb and you had a catalogue and could then choose carefully categorized qualities in yourself, what would you choose? Sometimes it feels like then it would be easier then having to try and discover it for yourself. And I could go on about how no, it’s great that we have to go through this struggle to find it and I’ve learned all these things from my journey, but unfortunately, that is not this poem.
No one actually knows who they are completely ever. That’s a neverending journey according to...well everyone. But why do we fight so hard to find it?
If someone paid me to try one new thing each day, I would take them up on that opportunity but if you think at the end of it all, I’d tell you what I learned about myself, then you can have your money back because I’m not interested.
Not every experience is a learning experience and not every adventure has to mean something. I like rock climbing. I like blueberries and strawberries and raspberries. I take long car rides just because I can, thank you Hybrid vehicles. But I am not a rock climber or a farm girl or a lover of cars. I know that I am a person who is going day to day doing things that I like to do. So I may pick up my ukulele this day and I may never pick it up again for another year, but I certainly won’t be selling it because of that. I own more books than I can account for and haven’t read more than 30% of them, but I hate having to take books to the used book store and I love buying more. And so what does that make me?
I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, because that is not this poem.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
watch you, whisper to you
i want to touch your body
every inch of your flesh should be categorized in to a file cabinet
to be ordered by sensation and rhythm
a ***** sweaty affair of taking inventory of the defense of the other team
"what hurts them" "what helps them" "what makes them giggle" "what makes them moan"
i know what it takes to make them moan
its a war out here and every is invited,
to the war of the lost, stepped on, and rejected
against the rainbows, puppies, and ******
i want feel your sculpted dancing legs
i want to lick the death off her skin
carcass her imperfectly perfect body
********** the subject is a delicate process
first, the physical clothes,
then, the emotional barriers
finally, the mental incapability
at the end, you are presented with the most pure human form
a fully **** model of your great white buffalo.
for me.... it the one that got away, she sings in the shower
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC
I'm extremely disorganized
I don't know what belongs where
Take my eyes for example
I can't find a place to rest them
I tried setting them on you
But everyone agreed that **** wasn't working
They explained that an organized man
Adheres to categories
And you and I
Are not of a kind
I attempted to argue that you organized me
My heart
My mind
You folded me neatly
When you beat me
You always made sure to set me aside when you were done with me
You'd place me in a bin
Or release me to the wind
Yet there was a burdensome fault in my littered logic
They explained that an organized man
Is clean
I must use eyes that are sanitized
To see how we're not categorized
And avoid your matador eyes
Because things will get messy
When the bull in your fists
Sees the roses in my heart
My humanity starts to part
And my wishes I begin to opine
For the nature of a bovine
So I wouldn't misplace my eyes
And be what I'm classified
But that nature eludes me
As do most things
On account of me being disorganized and all
But I'm a quick learner order burner page turner
I may not know what belongs where
But I know I belong neither here nor there
Making my eyes not belong anywhere
This is what develops my entropy stare
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
When I was a little girl I used to separate all of my crayons into colors
I had the different blues, reds, yellows, greens
All categorized into section waiting for their turn
And I finally realized
There was always one color left behind, white
Pure and untouched, so uncommon, never used, overlooked
And sometimes I like to think of myself as that white crayon
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
Reality can keep the glamour and it can also take the glitz,
cause nowadays we discover ourselves on computer chips.
We see how others live in all kinds of far places
then try to be individuals in books full of faces.
And lets face it these days our lives are being recorded;
information on your likes and activities stored and sorted.
You ignore it; never get hurt by what you don't know
more concerned about how you'll crop your next photo.
Gotta make sure to fit in all your clothes logos
cause it'll for sure make haters go loco.
When they see how you live life with the motto 'yolo'
it will make them all wanna examine their livesand say 'oh no'.
Man I swear this yolo fad has gotta run into the ground
cause if you lived twice your second one wouldn't be spent ******* around.
But nowadays we become a grown up on webpages
with profiles full of pictures and landmarks to chart phases.
Some might call it art in the way that we all make it
but, its a mirror to ourselves til the minute we all break it.
Can't shake it - the feeling we've crossed realities borders
into a digital realm ruled by coded orders,
with back doors and corridors,
and plasma screens and lots of cords,
USB's and PC's,
Web Cams, and DVD's,
terrabytes and touch screens,
reach out and you can touch dreams.
but all that you touch it just seems
without the intention to be.
Because locked inside the screen is reality invested
you wouldn't waste your time if no one else was interested.
It's been suggested that staring at the screen is bad for your eyes
but I do imply that being glued to it is bad for our lives.
Now when we meet face to face we cannot even socialize
we apply on dating sites and get further categorized.
So now it's like who we are is only what does appear
to others on all these sites we might never even come near
some attraction that was natural pulling in with real excitement,
so I guess romance is gone in the age of social enlightenment.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
ALERTS TO FINANCIAL AND MILITARY THREATS IN 2012 EUROPE
By John Cleese (British writer, actor and tall person):
The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent events in Syria
and have therefore raised their security level from "Miffed" to
"Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to
"Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not
been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies nearly ran
out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to "A ******
Nuisance." The last time the British issued a ****** Nuisance" warning
level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada.
The Scots have raised their threat level from ****** Off" to "Let's get
the ******** They don't have any other levels. This is the reason they
have been used on the front line of the British army for the last 300 years.
The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror
alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France
are "Collaborate" and "Surrender." The rise was precipitated by a recent
fire that destroyed France 's white flag factory, effectively paralyzing
the country's military capability.
Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly"
to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective
Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."
The Germans have increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance"
to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher
levels: "Invade a Neighbor" and "Lose."
Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual; the only threat
they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels.
The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy.
These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish
navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.
Australia , meanwhile, has raised its security level from "No worries" to
"She'll be alright, Mate." Two more escalation levels remain: ****** I
think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend!" and "The barbie is
cancelled." So far no situation has ever
warranted use of the last final escalation level.
A final thought -" Greece is collapsing, the Iranians are getting
aggressive, and Rome is in disarray. Welcome back to 430 BC."
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
i am the right knee
that steps first
and hits gravel
embracing the brute pain
our world has acclimated us to
because they said injury is
inevitable
while you are the left
that although remains flawless
from lack of exposure
heals
slower
and is categorized with
the weak
we belong to the same body
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
As cavemen with half-yard sticks
smudging soot on open rock
they hunch
over carcasses of donut boxes
(the wax paper skin folded,
use all parts of the animal)
and grunt in chorus.
stocks are down this quarter,
(anger of the Gods)
sacrifice to the sun,
perform the ancient gymnastic of
rain dancing while kissing up
let the blood ink river run
smooth and whole
pray our intake outgrows
our categorized expenses
let there be profit
(the vesper smoke stings
with the haunting of paygrades
and budget cuts)
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
The sun sends us life as a
coherent cohesive beam, unfiltered.
Our science has shown us that
all it takes to rationalize this
is a prism, the rainbows'
gatekeeper, after whose interference
we can see the dichotomy of
each ribbon of color, naked
and categorized like society.
A prism isn't necessary to see
that life is beautiful, any
more than society or our
minds are necessary for us to
instinctively know that light
loses something as it meets
the prism.
The light was too beautiful for
us to comprehend, so we broke
it down to build up walls.
We used the walls to build rooms,
and our minds to bar the doors
and windows. Society took care
of the rest.
The real breakthrough takes place
when we take all that we
learned and use it to tear
back down that prison
of the light.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
the French palate doth enjoy a little horse
a batch of it hath been recognized
their meat products ill categorized
consuming countries seeking some recourse
a mix up at the meat supplier's end
hath drawn many persons to keenly question
the thoroughness of factory inspection
bovine and equine meats differ in blend
the affair hath been verily upsetting
those who didn't follow with consistency
now have a smattering of egg on face
the episode is most embarrassing
food items should guarantee authenticity
once they're on the market they cause disgrace
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
clutching at pebbles
thrown hard into sky as birds
bitter yolk of unceasing raindrop
ideals personified, then scattered in leaf
a coarse blending of the soul and what is
scream of forgotten swing alone in sunshine
a fear internalized, an unquenched song of watery despair and silence
pacing, pacing, toward and away from a melody that is
as intangible as balloons whispering to decaying stars
fading into nothingness, brief respite, void of sound, emptiness most
profoundly pierced with kaleidoscopic shards of senses and memory;
with music of blueberries, gleefully dropped
into tinny pails overflowing from wistfulness
with touch of unblossomed rosebuds admired,
unyielding like crabapples moist in calloused palms
with smell of tree, unrepentant and unchanging,
yet gnarled and longing, indistinct, uncertain
with taste of wind, speckled purity of truth elusive,
of realization categorized, of wispy but unrelenting passion
with the image of a hope
etched, recessed, scorned, repressed, grasped, suspended in song
the maybe’s and the why’s
the can’t’s and the shouldn’t’s
the have-to’s and the why’s
then slowly fingers defiantly uncurl from stone, in motion unrefined
and quietly, fervently; quietly, fervently, I begin to sing...
a mottled snapshot of my mind.
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
the conversations
you have with people
sitting in a kitchen
smoking ****
drinking coffee, talking about life
family, kids, religion, all sorts of personal ****
that don't even fit those words
but they're categorized
just like the cupboards
got the salt and the seasoning
shuffled together in order
coffee machine in the right part of the cupboard
and all throughout the night
when everyone is quiet
and no one else is talking
and their eyes are rested
we are uncovering the deepest parts about life
and talking about what it really means
and how to really feel about this ****
and the things that happen to us and how we deal with them
these are times in life
when there is a timeout taken
in the middle of the game
and you're going through it, both lines pushing hard, everyone going full blast
then you gotta take a deep breathe
and talk about it
so that's what happened
tonight
plus some coffee, a marijuana, an e cigarette
and some ********
sometimes i really feel like a *****
not in a sense of a woman
but someone who isn't strong
that's what it's like being a man
but i dunno
this shit's ********
everything i post i hate
and it all feels ******** and stupid
but someone out there is reading it and saying
oh ****
this dude
is kinda like me
so
what's up
to whoever this is
nice to meet u
welcome to the world
we've been here for a minute
but maybe we can have a chat sometime
in a kitchen
in the middle of the night
and sit on the counters
pass a bottle back and forth
and really talk about what's going on
even if we don't meet in the same spot or share the same views
let's try to make sense of it
somehow
and if we don't
least we killed some time
it was good
spending it with ya
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
Within the floor-less room
Of a ceiling-less chamber
Spanning top to bottom
Lies a collection.
Each strand of memory
In tiny glass vials
Trapped forever
Sealed to perfection.
Within this glass palace
These tiny glass vials
Sorted and labelled
Into many a section.
The past, the present
The thoughts for the future
Accurately categorized
According to emotion.
Within each glass vial
A wisp of thought
A caress of experience
A whisper of recollection.
Once uncorked
The memory unleashed
Arising in full might
In every direction.
Within this door-less
Window-less chamber
Alas these memories
Are bound for protection.
Trapped forever
Rusting with time
Or remaining in grandeur
Without external intervention.
One seeks the pensieve
The key to this access
Oblivious to the trap
A pure addiction.
Alas the pensieve
Binds one further to the chamber
Away from reality
No resurrection.
Within the floor-less room
Of a ceiling-less chamber
Spanning top to bottom
Lies our collection.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
everywhere us control freaks are categorized as the bad people.
we're the narcissists-
the mean ones.
every assumption leads to us being put off as people who abuse those around us.
i am a control freak.
i get furious when things don't go my way to the point of wanting to cry.
i hate being wrong.
i want to ****** the happiness and the "rightness" off of your smug face.
i want to grab my throat and squeeze the stupidity out of me.
i want to bash your mouth with my fist until you can no longer speak-
until your words are so incomprehensible that everything you're saying must be wrong.
i want to always be the smartest guy in the room,
i hate not being the smartest guy in the room.
i want and i want and i want
but i never do anything about it.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
Twenty-three and coming from my teens
I’ve developed along already categorized genes,
By those who think they know me,
When I’m only twenty-three with a molding mentality
I was once vicariously raised through parentally guided means
Socially slit by those that promised me prosperity if I was studious,
Taught the importance of individuality,
Yet forced to be obedient
Then indoctrinated with an educator’s prescription,
An addiction they picked up in a higher institution
I’m finding it hard to follow your lead, when you found nourishment in my youthful innocence,
Socially stitched through generationally fostered fixes
Notions that you could promise me providence,
I’ve been cradled in a crib riddled with termites
Time shows little sympathy for those who have yet to comprehend the promise of a six foot end,
Yet you trained me to believe you didn’t domesticate me
Despite being conceived in a place I was not well received,
You taught the importance of obedience
Yet I’m finding it hard to accept your ancestral credence,
When this place has been passed along bloodlines,
When my generationally guided grandparents' felt the final close of their eyes,
And left me a world pieced together by both atrocities and glimpses of humanity
I’m finding it hard to speak in a world with such narcissistic sympathies of the traditionally raised
Yet I’m socially sutured by the fact that I still breathe,
While being born in a place that once found stability through a slave trade,
A middle passage that led to a devious democracy
I’m so grateful we can mend what barbarians once began,
I’ve had time to age, enough to take the reins,
Though before we build our shrines of this age,
You can still pray for something beyond the grave,
Yet never forget how we've been stranded, left here to continue, or to fray,
To humanize a species that earth derived,
Or to let the braids of life untwine and give way,
During our generations' stay.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC