Tag Archives: poetry

Dark

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Outrageous.

They are telling me to be less pale.

Can you believe it?

Telling a girl to change the colour of her skin

Years ago, they told me:

“Be white! The shade! Colour your eyes in black!

You must be our perfect

China doll.

We do not want a ruddy pink face.”

As though it was somehow “unflattering” to be seen with my pinkness,

As though it was insulting to own a face freckled by sunlight and burned by mirrors.

A face that had grown and changed over thousands of years of cold

And wet

And dark.

“Dark.”

Now they are telling me to be more dark.

And I look upon my Irish face and ask them “how?”

In return, they hand me tinted moisturisers,

Contouring kits,

Bronzing beads

And a handful of false hope within a spray tan.

So I begin my quest.

I moisturise,

Contour,

Bronze.

And with a resigned sigh, I spray a chemical across my body in the hope that I will be acknowledged.

And I look in the mirror that burns me.

And I see orange, followed by more orange with a dash of newfound insecurity and two new green eyes.

I look up to the sky

Ask whatever gods

“Why do they want me to be this way?”

In return they send me a gun and it dawns.

 

I think back to those years ago,

Imagine being told:

“Be white! The shade! Colour your eyes in black!

You must be our perfect

China doll.”

And looking in the mirror

Only to see a dark face.

I imagine being told for decades and centuries:

“Be white! The shade! Colour your eyes in black!

You must be white!”

I imagine being pushed into a box,

And pushed away for an “unacceptable” colour,

All the while being told:

“Be white! The shade! Colour yourself white!

You must be white!”

 

And I finally imagine

Staring down the barrel of a gun.

Being questioned by a man with a

Ruddy pink face.

Being asked what I am doing

Why am I acting so suspicious?

I imagine telling them

 

I am not white

And I am doing my weekly shopping.

 

 

I am not white

And I am driving.

 

I am not white

And I am a child with a toy.

 

I am not white and for that reason, in the corrupted blind eyes of your justice I must be punished.

 

I look once more into the mirror that burns me.

Behind my fake orange.

With my hands I scrape it from my face and feel a different burning.

Shame.

I am so sorry for what my skin has done.

I am so sorry for the pain that white has caused.

I am so, incredibly sorry that while people die, I complain about my colour and act as though I am the one that has been inflicted by the greatest injustice.

 

I wish to start again.

 

So please,

Be unapologetically black,

Be unapologetically Hispanic,

Unapologetically middle eastern,

Unapologetically Asian,

Unapologetically indegineous.

And I will bashfully try,

To be apologetically white.

 

 

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Obituary

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Here lies a song

It was strummed,

Plucked,

Pressed

To create a shrill dust.

Every soft note as dull and clear

As the last.

Here lies a song.

It was sobbed over

And joked about.

It inflicted fear and rage

And left everyone who listened light

And giddy.

Here lies a song.

It was written underneath a cloudy sky in a bedroom.

The chords mapped out as light screamed through the window of dawn.

The melody was shaped in a thunderstorm,

And the percussion was a river.

Here lies a song.

A song that was never written.

A song that was half-written.

It is nine minutes long.

Will you stay?

Will you listen?

 

Another list, of fear

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My friends and strangers I am scared.

I am scared of holes in clusters

I am scared of insects in swarms.

I am scared of great heights,

But more than that I’m scared of falling.

 

However there is a difference between phobia and fear.

Phobia is the extremity of aversion, the knarled twist in your stomach.

Phobia knocks on your door, asks to come in.

Fear asks nothing.

You cannot hide from fear.

Fear is the slow creeping, the harsh jolt of a realisation

About one’s self.

It always finds you.

It always wins.

 

So what do I fear?

I fear that I will die out before people know my name

I fear that I will never live up to the expectations of others

I fear that I will one day hold no use to anybody.

I fear being alone.

Being too strange

Being a drifter

Being “unrelatable”, unable to socialise

I fear being discovered as the kid that writes shitty poetry

And actively enjoys Sylvia Plath’s work.

I fear abandonment

I fear what I am.

I fear what I am becoming.

 

But as for yourselves?

What is it you fear most?

Think.

It’s there.

 

The list of things we said

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He said:

“Not to be an ass, but we

Hate each other.

As you may be aware, there is a party.

I am throwing it

And you will not be there”

Said my friend.

 

Then he listed

The reasons why:

“Because I despise you.

I think you are

Arrogant

Whiny

Vindictive

I do not want to be around you.”

 

I thought, arrogant

Whiny

Vindictive

Vindictive

Vindictive?

Am I?

Am I?

 

So I said “ok.”

I said “this is petty”

But I thought “vindictive”

 

Now, I am in no way disillusioned

I know full well that I am

Arrogant and

Whiny.

But vindictive, is that what I am?

Some secret corner of hate in my mind I do not know,

A crevice of my existence I have been oblivious to?

Is it there?

Is it there?

Is it there?

 

He wrote, in typical typed reply:

“We have hated each other for months now.

I don’t know how we kept it up.

I wouldn’t have called us friends, I don’t think.”

 

I thought, have we?

Was I as unaware of this as I was my streak of malice?

Surely not. We had been friends for years.

Vindictive.

Vindictive.

 

I responded:”Goodbye”

Vindictive

Hate

Despised

Yes, goodbye old friend,

You will be somewhat missed

 

His final response:

“It’s too hot to argue.

I’m sure it’ll all blow over

By September”

 

That is what he said.

 

 

 

Jordan

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I have a friend

Called Jordan

They live in the US.

For those of you that may be confused,

I do not live there.

I am very British.

Tea and crumpets,

And all that.

 

Anyway, so

This friend

Jordan

Is probably my closest friend right now.

Which kinda sucks

But is also cool.

Because it feels like there is somebody to talk to

From a whole different world.

If I gossip

It doesn’t have any repercussions

And the same goes for them.

I can talk freely

About ideas

Without ridicule

Without some body else telling me

“That’s ridiculous

Let’s talk about something else”

I can talk passionately about music

Religion

Books and poetry

And not be written off as a wannabe hipster,

Because they share this same passion.

 

Jordan lives in the middle of the US

(I know the state but I won’t tell)

They used to live in a big city until there was

a bad thing

And then they had to move to a paper town

“In the middle of fkujing nowhere”

As they they would say.

We talk every night

Usually over skype

About everything.

 

Sometimes this is a problem

Because I will stay up talking to them at ridiculous times

Like 2 in the morning

But in a way, it’s exciting.

Because the whole town is quiet

And I feel like I’m sharing

A moment

With them

In the stillness and the dark.

And the world becomes a safe place.

 

They have been through some stuff in the past

But we never talk about it

Sometimes they get really down

And I worry

But I know that in reality,

They’ll pull through.

 

It’s odd for me,

Having a friend like this

Caring platonically for somebody like this,

And wishing

With every fibre of my being

For their happiness.

Hoping

That one day the sea will disappear,

And the land will grow close

So that I wouldn’t have to walk across an ocean

To finally see them

Face to face.

 

 

 

Something different

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I am attempting

Something different

A different format.

Why?

I’m not sure. It feels easier to write this way.

 

I don’t know whether this classes as poetry or not

Because let’s be honest

Anything can be poetry, really.

 

I’m thinking that maybe this will make it easier

and quicker for me to blog.

Because

This feels like how I speak

And it is comforting and more

Honest?? I can express

Myself through the rhythm of the words.

 

I am trying this.