Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"nationless" poems
A shadow we become in the midst of promise and peril. A tingling voice fed by the imaginary monster of hope of prosperity. They sell us a dream from which constant rude and lethargic awakenings auction us to the highest bidder. We are political bargaining chips, fillers, collateral, surplussed aims and aspirations. We are worth our blood but never true citizenship, but what does citizenship mean when our siblings are murdered with no consequence? Quick some of us are to fantasize about trading fences and walls for humanity. Ignoring that the very potion that will hold those borders together is our flesh, and the dreams of our children. I always hoped for more out of this narrative, some sort of comedic relief or an alternative ending. But I’m just sitting here in this never ending opera with horrible singing and beer. II. Aquí, behind this rock I call my safe voice I stay rooting for you, I just don’t have it in me, the more crumbs we get, the closer we are to the cake, but if you get the bakery, I promise you I’ll be your cashier, plus I love cheesecake. Waiting games... I don’t recall the last time you looked at me. Can you stamp me please? Something within me still longs to be free and I don’t know what to do. Fear of repatriation, when there’s really no country for you, you nationless, culturally ambiguous neoliberal residue. One day they will ask me to speak, I will walk slowly towards the podium as people await to hear what I have to say, they imagine I’ll sing an anthology of resilience, but instead I’ll just say “ya pa’ que!”.
0
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 4:06 AM UTC
xuanito-de-la-puente
Bridge a dream
A shadow we become in the midst of promise and peril. A tingling voice fed by the imaginary monster of hope of prosperity. They sell us a dream from which constant rude and lethargic awakenings auction us to the highest bidder. We are political bargaining chips, fillers, collateral, surplussed aims and aspirations. We are worth our blood but never true citizenship, but what does citizenship mean when our siblings are murdered with no consequence? Quick some of us are to fantasize about trading fences and walls for humanity. Ignoring that the very potion that will hold those borders together is our flesh, and the dreams of our children. I always hoped for more out of this narrative, some sort of comedic relief or an alternative ending. But I’m just sitting here in this never ending opera with horrible singing and beer. II. Aquí, behind this rock I call my safe voice I stay rooting for you, I just don’t have it in me, the more crumbs we get, the closer we are to the cake, but if you get the bakery, I promise you I’ll be your cashier, plus I love cheesecake. Waiting games... I don’t recall the last time you looked at me. Can you stamp me please? Something within me still longs to be free and I don’t know what to do. Fear of repatriation, when there’s really no country for you, you nationless, culturally ambiguous neoliberal residue. One day they will ask me to speak, I will walk slowly towards the podium as people await to hear what I have to say, they imagine I’ll sing an anthology of resilience, but instead I’ll just say “ya pa’ que!”.
Continue reading...
14
february. sunday. two more days. in search of a café. swans and seagulls. omega. do not hesitate to employ every habit i know you’ve been at it much longer than me the winter is fickle; i won’t give you trouble walls turn into rubble walls fill up the sea february. sunday. two more days. fireworks across the water. school boys masquerading as soldiers. for each little grape sprouting leaves in my liver i ask - you deliver oh what have i found we’re watching the nationless torment the nation such sweet celebration such heavenly fun february. sunday. two more days. mustard yellow mud. your crooked horn.
0
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
vvlettish
A Holier Scan
february. sunday. two more days. in search of a café. swans and seagulls. omega. do not hesitate to employ every habit i know you’ve been at it much longer than me the winter is fickle; i won’t give you trouble walls turn into rubble walls fill up the sea february. sunday. two more days. fireworks across the water. school boys masquerading as soldiers. for each little grape sprouting leaves in my liver i ask - you deliver oh what have i found we’re watching the nationless torment the nation such sweet celebration such heavenly fun february. sunday. two more days. mustard yellow mud. your crooked horn.
Continue reading...
15