Knock Knock Jokes
(Writer’s Block Haiku)
knock knock- who’s there? what
do you call a writer who
never writes? a joke.
Diaspora Dysphoria
Look I write something! I’m actually trying to perform this for the One World show my school has every year. I just auditioned it today, so let’s hope for the best <3
Still have to work of some of it, but most of it is here.
Diaspora
Dysphoria
Dysphoria
I
am a child of diaspora.
am a child of diaspora.
Last
name I have no ties to,
name I have no ties to,
First
name my mother heard on Sesame Street,
name my mother heard on Sesame Street,
Names
give me no solace.
give me no solace.
My
mama’s mama was a product of love soured
mama’s mama was a product of love soured
By
a nationwide obsession with race and colour:
a nationwide obsession with race and colour:
A
story of a baby too brown
story of a baby too brown
For
anyone but her mother to love.
anyone but her mother to love.
A
story that comes back ‘round to me when they say,
story that comes back ‘round to me when they say,
‘Psst,
t’ick sauce wit’ de nice hair.’
t’ick sauce wit’ de nice hair.’
They
call me dougla.
call me dougla.
By
the time I outgrew my obsession with bindis and tikas
the time I outgrew my obsession with bindis and tikas
And
my one true dream to be bollywood dancer,
my one true dream to be bollywood dancer,
Classmates
told me I was too proper to be black.
told me I was too proper to be black.
They
call me dougla.
call me dougla.
But
ever so often I throw around mulatto
ever so often I throw around mulatto
And
try and forget the oppression behind it.
try and forget the oppression behind it.
Two
generations later, I have no ties to coco panyol
generations later, I have no ties to coco panyol
Other
than passing mention.
than passing mention.
The
only name I have for this,
only name I have for this,
The
only name I have for me,
only name I have for me,
Is
confused.
confused.
At
home they say, ‘dougla, what yuh mix wit’?’
home they say, ‘dougla, what yuh mix wit’?’
But
here they say black is black.
here they say black is black.
‘Are
you ashamed?’
you ashamed?’
Am I ashamed?
Not
of the blackness
of the blackness
Or
the whiteness
the whiteness
Or
the Indian-ness
the Indian-ness
Or
the Syrian-ness
the Syrian-ness
Or
the whatever-else-it-have-ness.
the whatever-else-it-have-ness.
Just
confused.
confused.
Because
things like race have always baffled me.
things like race have always baffled me.
Because
race implies someone must win.
race implies someone must win.
Because
when I look in the mirror
when I look in the mirror
And
I see the roundness of my nose,
I see the roundness of my nose,
The
curliness of my hair,
curliness of my hair,
The
sharpness of my cheeks
sharpness of my cheeks
And
the brownness of my skin,
the brownness of my skin,
I
am neither ashamed nor confused;
am neither ashamed nor confused;
just
euphoric.
euphoric.
Death Throes
Morbid fascination
kills me again and again.
These are the death throes
Of our potential.
This is the not the martyrdom
I try to tell myself it is.
It is assisted suicide.
Nor is it the first time-
Reincarnation ad nauseam,
Same me, different yous-
Till nirvana:
A state I cannot reach.
It sickens me,
The way I crave
Your attentions.
Like Tantalus I thirst
And am never satisfied.
You bloom perpetual
While I fade like echoes.
Jeweled fruit that fall
From your lips
Into my ears
Sweet fruit, biting aftertaste,
Like soured wine to the dying man,
Leaves me empty and bitter.
I am killed softly
By the words you never speak.
Impotency
Stagnancy-bred frustration
Angry at what I wanted to do but didn’t
What I didn’t do but could have.
Listlessness taints everything,
Even my rage is impotent.
Carnival Poem I
(I’m not dead).
Carnival Poem I
The music whips you into mania
And the sweat of the masses incites to ecstasy
If religion is the opiate,
This is the tonic.
Sweet like cascadoo,
Rush of power like cocaine,
Addictive like morphine.
We are the vessels
The street is the vein
Infecting all with
Wuk-up-yuh-waist-osis
And free-up-yuh-self-itis.
It is a chronic epidemic
Where the only cure
Is to succumb to the disease;
More riddim,
More kaiso,
More tempo.
Heart Burn
Hey guys, i’m not dead! I wrote a poem and everything. Read on for delicious teen angst. -.-
Heartburn
You are bad for my heart.
Premature ventricular contractions,
Unexpected palpitations,
Chronic pain that no
Clinically proven prescription can palliate,
With prolonged burning from passions
Long since passed.
All you’d left was a hole,
And I was defective.
Recovery is slow,
I’m still clogged with thoughts of you,
But the heart is a muscle
So I’m working it out to be stronger.
Remission lulls into complacency,
So relapse is swift, acutely reminding
That chronic pain is persistent.
It is a return of the now-expected,
Unexpected palpitations:
You are still bad for my heart.
Frustration
I’ve been feeling it so long
I’ve forgotten it’s name.
It comes and it goes,
Like the tide
With its ebbs and flows,
Like the moon
It waxes and wanes,
It is never really gone,
Just lingering behind sight,
Lulling with monotony
Like waves crashing
Against the shore,
Till I’m waist-deep
In despair, waiting
To cycle out.
Ode
*NOTE* this has been edited. and i’m much happier with the edit.
Ode
Your voice is sweet and slow like honey dripping off a spoon,
And the way your lips caress each word; parting is such sweet sorrow.
Your scent intoxicates my being
With its murmurs of power,
Hints of vice
And the lingering notes of fixation.
Your pendulum see saw hips hypnotize my eyes
So I play right into your smile
When our eyes meet, time moves poco rit,
As you weave your spell on me
And when we touch,
the heat crescendos, my heart beats staccato allegro
And the blood plays fortissimo in my ears.
Call To Worship
The artist has no comment.
I come to your temple to worship,
I’m on my knees at the altar,
Give me the wine,
Let me taste your body.
I adore with word,
Thought
And deed,
Let my lips sing your praises.
Let me worship at your temple,
And when I call your name,
It will never be in vain.
Fruition
(Clearly i’m on a roll today! must be the no sleep).
The words form like fruit in the tree of the mind,
If left too long, the birds of distraction
Peck away, leaving only, and even then
Only perhaps, a husk to make more fertile grounds.
Pick it too soon and hope against hope
As you force it to ripen that comes out right,
But the skin is too green and the flavor is wrong,
Though sometimes you can catch it at
Just the right time, and nurture it in a
Paper bag, and when it is ready,
Even through the slight tartness,
You can barely tell the difference.
And sometimes, the fruit falls,
Perfect in it’s form, succulent in
Its cadence, from the tree of the
Mind, directly to the mouth.