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BLD Nov 2023
His name is ingrained into the fabric of our flag,
yes, the one you see there, waving in the December air,
with waves that glisten not from sun but from wind,
through the water turned frozen they fail to despair,
"My, oh, my, it's Washington Crossing the Delaware!"

Yet an intrinsic sense of nationalistic pride
exudes from the ink that tattoos this canvas,
the genesis of a nation they had taken for their own;
though, as truth becomes told, our pride seems to fold,
and the ink in the portrait begins to fade in color.

Still, on he trekked, though frigid and cold,
as hills bleached in snow began to unfold
potential Hessian retreats scattered across the beach,
a visualization of a battle bounding to unfold,
a strategist adept in war, in honor he was cloaked,

too determined to fail now.
But here we sit, in contemplation and wonder,
pondering the juxtaposition of privilege and patriotism --
how deceitful corruption now riddles those in charge,
empty promises as true as the navy blue

of the oils that stain this worn, cherished canvas.
Its memory lives on in the minds of many made here:
those of us who bleed the good ol' red, white, and blue,
and those of us who hide from the ones who tattoo
their whispered words into the portrait of our being.

Our quilted nation is laced with crimson,
a tapestry of history hidden from the young;
woven threads of variability outline the margins,
a picturesque vision of what could be; a voice speaks,
"Perhaps our future is just across the Delaware!"
ChinHooi Ng Jul 2023
Live your life
though it's not an easy thing to do
especially for those who are not born with inheritances
every step of the way is rampant with imbalances
it's also because the world is riddled with contrived rules
everywhere it's still primeval law of the jungle
sometimes we're not strong enough
but at all times we need to think for ourselves
protecting ourselves is the only way
making it possible for us
to live a life
many choose to conform to the practices of the society
some choose to stay true to their humanity
the two choices often find themselves in conflict
not saying there's no reconciliations
staying true to yourself
is not preordained to be a confrontation to the world
sometimes it can be more of an integration
because when you know yourself
you become tolerant of the world
because the more you love yourself
you have to learn to love the world
and slowly you'll be able to live out
your own life
the process is never easy
but it's the only way to understanding life
to loving it most of the time.
Brittany Wynn Apr 2020
Exultant from a few Tuesday night
Adderall highs, strung out on sleepless
Spotify, we retreat to your car, lighting a few
bowls and I find myself in a mirror—
lacquered eyes and speaker feedback
lead me along the wall, fingers
catching the telephone jack.
You lower me slowly, cool,
cotton sheets against my shoulders
and while you kiss my ribs,
I remember two nights ago—you fell

asleep before I even unhooked my bra
in a half-assed, half-dreaded, C+ cup effort.
But I look at my black socks, chew
my nails away, and drag the jagged lines
along your spine, the textbook
I don’t want to return.

We’ve sat on loveseats for hours,
days, crying over mediocrity,
the –isms, drunken mistakes meant to haunt
us long past under-grad. In class we
discuss darkness, the psyche, and morality,
but I just want to draw my uneven
hearts in the margins.
Feeling nostalgic, and it's been too long so I thought I'd put this one back up.
Yamuna Turco Feb 2020
I wish
I wish I liked STEM
I perpetuate the stereotype,
women studying English,
and art,
and languages

My love of the arts,
and the humanities,
Is regressing women's history

But it is my right
My right to study art,
and languages,
and theatre

Women's empowerment
And fight for equality,
is so I can study humanities,
and Tiera Fletcher could study rocket science
albatross Aug 2019
I heard a plaintive heave before the cleaving of the air,

then of the flesh – a forceful splitting of a young citrus,
then of the splintering – a crunch that froze the scorch of that afternoon.

Finito! the sound of the fragile spine breaking into hundreds... or is it thousands? of pieces.

And the debris, of the marrow
and the dangling arteries –
of chunks of the hypothalamus,
a part of the left hemisphere –

the tangential stains of blood on modern Golgotha – a cemented clearing deep within the woods
parched and dried by the anger of that afternoon -

which resembles a festive night:
festooned with firecrackers,
with showers of embers and
fountains of fire,
glow sticks of horror,

And the lower part, the detachment:
loose and limp
placid and peaceful.

A fresh sculpture of soft clay in red  
plaid polo and punturong –
both saved by the stain of gore,

but not with the stain of nature

on the flipside
the habiliments are covered in dust – modern dust
brought by cement and its slow deterioration

of how friction demolishes it era by era
tick by tock of the giant slothful clock -

and as this same cement
seeps all the fireworks

vegetation thrives –
and the fruit of man, and law, and
capital teeth and eye dangles
through thick sinewy vines.

The land devour the sculpture carved by a single
stroke.

And then another heave is heard
then the cleaving of the air,
the almost splitting of the neck meat,
the forceful pulling of a penchant edge
then the cleaving of the air
the splitting of a young tangerine,
then the splintering of a spine,
the spray of sainthood in scarlet,
then the limping,
the rolling, the creation of a mask.

It was a masterpiece of music,
visual aesthetics and
natural arts.

As the mark of each face
was left in the humid winds
of that
afternoon.
zero Feb 2018
If you can't think of it one way;
think of another.
You wouldn't let your car run from place to place
consistently for a week
without checking it's oil,
the tyres
or under the bonnet.

Why should we do any different?
My therapist said this to me

-Z.xo
Through the light of day,
I see over the mountains,
I see the rich colours around me,
I see the vibrancy,
I see the light of day itself.

Is it really that pure?

So instead I wait for night.

I can’t see past the mountains, but why look?
Empty colours surround me.
I don’t see the filter; the alleged purity.

Overwhelmed, the context assaults me.
Darkness lances into me.
I yell. I writhe -

in my bleeding innocence, await salvation. “Saviour!” He escapes me.

“The light of day will save.”

I see the purity ****** itself down in beams.
I see the warmth on my body.
I see the good people.
But still, I see no succour.

I decide not to see, but to look.

I look for the humanity in purity, only blemishes are forthcoming.

Humanity, you have failed me.
Copyright © Sibastien

Often, we see the world from a falsified, optimistic perspective opposed to her true colours, and when we do finally see them, they're quite scary.
Brittany Wynn Mar 2015
For every night we've spent sitting on loveseats
crying about mistakes and burdens promising to haunt
us for the rest of our under-grad, I could've gotten a humanities
degree two years ago.
Latreece Rose Jan 2015
I wear Inuit clothing.
Wrapped in Paleolithic reindeer
I hunt mammoths and lions:
ivory a source to make art
and males with no manes to warm their heads.

I’m huntress, nothing more.
Men howl to paint me in caves
to represent the woman I am:
a bull for my head
and the edge of the rock my womanhood.

I’d rather **** with men.
I have humanly adventures with them
rather than pick berries:
I’m hungry not for fruit
but for ****** creatures to gain power.

A man gave me a flute.
It had three holes to make music
with my mouth and fingers, an instrument:
So I blew hard to call him
our spiritual connection one, him and I.

I'm a huntress, nothing more.
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