forthevoiceless

On Being a Mixed Person of Color: The Detriment of Growing Up Mixed

kudipeaches — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 19:53:00 -0400

On Being a Mixed Person of Color: The Detriment of Growing Up Mixed :

She told me that I couldn’t be black.

In fact, she said, “You’re not… black.”

What I had done to deserve this attack

Was beyond me, because as much as I had known

I was different. I was still free, free to be…

I was still free to be me.

Knee deep in the African…

Peaches’ Note: This hurts to read on a number of levels because there isn’t a sentence here that didn’t puncture my every nerve. Growing up multiracial (My mother being Black, her maternal great (x7) grandmother being Choctaw, and my father being Puerto Rican) harrowing experiences that come with being more than one race is far more difficult than what is ever stated or seen in the eyes of the media.

When you’re born into this world where monoraciality is far more accepted than your combined races the discrimination, constant ostracizing, and isolation from strangers, family, and friends can shake you to your core.

Your conception, your childhood, and your identity are always questioned, degraded, devalued, and somehow disproved by the ignorant and hateful.

More often than not I was an outcast on both sides of track. I was either too light to be Black, too dark to be Puerto Rican, too curly to be Black, too nappy to Puerto Rican,and too well-spoken in English and not well-spoken enough for Spanish. It didn’t matter that I was raised by my Black mother, lived in Black community, went to a predominantly Black school, and attended a Black church. I wasn’t Black enough. It didn’t matter that I studied Spanish since I was 11 years old or that my father was born and raised on the island. I couldn’t be Puerto Rican enough. Only my family was loving enough to accept my siblings and myself as we were.

This poem is an anthem for every person has ever been discredited for merely being as they have always been and for being pressured into dividing themselves simply because a close-minded lot of an individuals can’t stand the beauty of them being whole.

run-down-verses: My hearts suicide was committed by loving one out of it’s reach My mind and body...

kudipeaches — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 19:31:35 -0400

run-down-verses:

My hearts suicide
was committed by loving
one out of it’s reach

My mind and body
are arguing over how
to follow my heart

My soul is waiting
to be set free from this world
when they decide how

And God is waiting
to pass judgement on my soul
and decide my fate

While the one I love
never even knew that I
was in love with them

so for them at least

life is good

Peaches’ Note: Painfully relatable, honestly written, beautifully expressed.

a bed among the clouds

lessons-in-morbidity — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 23:18:17 -0400

thefateofmemories:

I let balloons go on purpose

giving them the freedom

I cannot have,

the freedom among

the storm clouds that

I pine for every night,

to be blanketed in sheets

of rain drops

and tucked in by the

fingers of the wind,

with the lightning

as a night light

and a lullaby

hummed from the

throat of thunder.

But, iron trees put down

roots in concrete,

and, darling, my feet

are fixed to the ground.

So, I let the balloons go

to give them a bed

among the clouds.

Sunny’s Note: Lovely.

4am

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 20:09:15 -0400

dancingtoheartbeats:

I used to wake up at four
each morning, to watch the sun kiss the river
on the horizon, voyeuristicly stare as
day made love to night,
if they had a heartbeat, each would soar.

I sometimes imagine
that you are that star
and you’ll kiss me and claim me as yours
in the morning, you’ll battle
sweetly until I am bright
and darkness does not exist

but those are just fantasies
woven on fairy wings,
and I shouldn’t be so stupid.

Sunny’s Note: There is so much innocence in this piece. I love it.

Sunny’s Note: A+ for imagery.

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 19:34:47 -0400

Sunny’s Note: A+ for imagery.

tothecatcher: Ernest said the world is dead And sailed out over...

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 16:25:02 -0400

tothecatcher:

Ernest said the world is dead
And sailed out over the sea.
If it is dead, he also said,
It was only dead to me.

Sunny’s Note: Simple little rhyme, but so very compelling. Love the photograph, too. I really like this.

Cheer

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 15:37:04 -0400

jcsonny:

You’re here   To cheer   Me on again

Like i’m winning Like it’s something   Like you’re at gain For helping me

But we both Lose

Me for   Being afraid And you   For not admitting it

Sunny’s Note: I love everything about this piece.

Everyone deserves the flames: What A Way To Exist

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 13:26:24 -0400

Everyone deserves the flames: What A Way To Exist:

k-speaks:

The world is:
Full of wonders.
Full of beauty.
Full of adventure.

But here I lie in the
comfort of these sheets
Dreaming of
Being someone else.
Doing something else.
Being somewhere else.

I want to belong to
the earth and
surrender my soul
to the universe.

Tired of living in routine.
Listening to the same damn music.
Seeing the same damn buildings.
Talking to the same damn people.

You wake.
You eat.
You sleep.
(But no amount cures
how tired you are)

“God, this cannot be it.”
I whisper in disbelief.
Because I want to
live forever, but
not like this.

Sunny’s Note: I love the flow of this piece. That last stanza really seals it with a punch in the gut.

take my hand; the revolution is coming: elegy in which the darkness decays

poemsofthequiet — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 23:22:32 -0400

take my hand; the revolution is coming: elegy in which the darkness decays:

cest-la-morte:

I’m in a city that still forgets my name -
the ache, the sudden, small miracles that bloom
in cobbled streets of stone.

Someone asked me if I felt at home here, and I
couldn’t stop myself from saying yes, yes of course.
Home is where your heart aches most, and mine

is always full of ache….

Jayla’s note: So beautiful. Each word has so much meaning, it really spoke to me.

elusion

takingstockofwhatmattersmost — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 20:43:47 -0400

Kevin’s Note: Really liked this one. Nice use of words here!

at the choral interlude between dusk and dawn,
you went back to the alley to kiss the lonely
street lamps that knew of all your secrets.

they saw how he pushed you against the wall,
pressing his menthol lips against yours;
to how he pushed you away, towards the wall;
his harsh shoving being the only lingering embrace.

cosmetics made for pretty bruises;
the veil obscures a jaded smile to immateriality.
diamond rings are synonymous with happiness,
but you are the diametrical antonym.

the lights flickered in the anterior
to their incandescence’s demise;
it was about time. likewise,
it was about time for you, too.

while you were there, he was chain-smoking
vows, turning them into vaporous waste, freely
exhaled; nonchalantly oblivious to everything.
soigné in tuxedo: the grandiose facade of sincerity.

the traditionalist bind is a Gordian knot
and you aimed for the clean cut.
(the street lamps would not
know of this secret)

you were still beautiful
with your liquid lungs
and in your wedding dress,
flared by oceanic buoyancy.

elephants

takingstockofwhatmattersmost — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 20:08:53 -0400

Kevin’s Note: Lovely!

often i find you
gazing into the sunlight
beyond any earthly horizon
with your mind at natter with itself
although you maintain
intelligent, direct contact
with those around you

but in the dark
i fear you give in
to the raging fantods
that cause you to be
so distant
and it leaves you
hebetudinous for days

but know this, my dear
that no matter how dull it gets
that we’re just kids
and tomorrow doesn’t exist yet
so breathe in today
and remember that
there is no elephant in the room
unless you let it in

Marionette

takingstockofwhatmattersmost — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 19:34:51 -0400

Kevin’s Note: Love the simple, lovely sentiment of this. Perfect!

The child is strung by wire

thin strands of a marionette

lifting to the harmonic rhythm

of Grandmother’s jewelry box

ink-drops: My sweet girl, my loving girl, my innocent girl made of clay, I fear what lies in...

kudipeaches — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 13:08:00 -0400

ink-drops:

My sweet girl, my loving girl, my innocent girl made of clay,

I fear what lies in store for you with the break of coming day.

I know not if you have always been this way,

With your soft young heart that you so happily give away.

Peaches’ note:

Of all the forms of poetry I adore the most, I have to be honest, I am very keen to rhyme. I don’t do it often because I find it a little difficult given my style of writing. However, it’s poems like these that got me into writing in the first place.

As a child there was and still continues to be a wonder within a line or two of a poem. The smallest and simplest of words strung together can give way for any feeling to stir in you. Happiness, sadness, anger, confusion, loneliness, yearning, contentment —- the list is endless.

For myself, when I read this I feel slightly nostalgic and giddy. This reminds of a time where love could be anything or anyone that one would imagine it to be.

Every kind minute gesture is an act of love towards someone you care about whether you realize it or not. Your smile, your laughter, the way you brush back your hair, or fiddle with your thumbs ; in somebody’s eyes the beauty of your being is love shining in their face.

Thank you so much for reblogging my post "The fall we've been waiting for"... I've never had so many people read any of my posts so I really appreciate it :)

Tue, 11 Jun 2013 21:13:00 -0400

Our pleasure! It was well deserved. Keep writing and there will always be someone reading. —RTV Staff

pacifico-and-parasites: winning is when the bed is tilted up and to the left and she has no choice...

goforthmylove — Tue, 11 Jun 2013 20:34:34 -0400

pacifico-and-parasites:

winning is when the bed
is tilted up and to the left
and she has no choice but
to fall into you every night

losing is the same thing

Amy’s note: LOVE this.

The Pulse of A Withered Afternoon

takingstockofwhatmattersmost — Tue, 11 Jun 2013 10:28:34 -0400

Kevin’s Note: Really love the descriptive words in this…just a simply lovely piece!

The pulse of a withered afternoon is painted

In a log distant call, most of it is yellow

Flowing in soft moans, carving silence

Swaying like the branches of a rib with

A sonic vacuum that calmly floats in a

Nearby pond, promises never to sink.

The fall we've been waiting for.

returnpoint — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 20:08:57 -0400

Vanessa’s note: I am all about the ways of mankind. This paints a gruesome picture, you’ve been warned…but these last four lines are so powerful, and they just say it all.

Here is a noose.
Kindly wrap it around
Your neck
And hang.

There are accordions
And trumpets
That drown your cries
And perpetuate
Our frenzied applause

Our eyes are thirsty
For a spectacle…
You know what?
Don’t die just yet.

Let us parade you.
Hang trinkets
From your hanging testicles
Set fire to your hair
And tell jokes about your mother.

We love a good fall
Especially when it’s from grace.
So we can prove to ourselves
That you are just like us.

Guilty by Association

returnpoint — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 19:47:01 -0400

Vanessa’s note: This one is a serious affair and has something important to say. Writing wise, the use of comparison was excellent and I really appreciated the clever twist in the end.

Cats can eat dead people, which is funny to think about

Because cats always look guilty for some reason

“the cat that swallowed the canary” and all that jazz

But that canary might have been human flesh

-

How positively morbid, and yet how curious that

we find it so appalling that something inhuman,

an animal,

could dehumanize a human

-

Only humans can dehumanize humans! It’s in the

rules!

-

That’s what wars are for, in which cats and other

players are not allowed; it’s all a game to blow a hole

through a faceless chest to prove your pride and

all that jazz, but do you not grow tired?

-

You get older and wiser and learn that cats eat dead

people, but no one seems to understand that the inhuman

has someone who called him John, someone who called

him Johnny, someone who called him Dear, and someone

who calls him Daddy

Yeehaw Y'all

returnpoint — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 17:16:15 -0400

Vanessa’s note: Being Greek I was insulted reading the first lines of this piece, but I kept reading anyway. Good thing I did since this is more than it seems at first, and its subtle or nor so subtle irony pays off in the end. Enjoy!

How dare you show me your atlas!

I have no need
for those Greek writers,
since they never once,
that’s right never once,
utter the name America.

Who else owns the rights,
to the Bald Eagles
majestic destiny.

No one.

Not even those
who reside in
houses where
whites first
killed and tasted
blood.

I am the lone
eagle,
flying drunkenly
through rush hour
traffic on my
cell phone, eating
chemicals,
love my
fatness,
I am the Eagle!

History is a lie,
I know it so,
trying to tell me
that America
didn’t create
math and Latin,
and dinosaurs
and Jesus
and the atom bomb (oh wait..)
and the sun
and the oceans
and every great novel
painting and songs.

The Beatles were American,
don’t let those accents
fool you!

I am the Bald Eagle!

shave me like a nsfw
teen nude picture!

touch my stars and stripes,
as a devour the world like a
cheap taco at 3 a.m.

bow down to my supremely written
sitcom shows, who needs
literature, where are the authors
laugh tracks.

I am the Bald Eagle,
I am American.

Yeehaw Y’all!

Victoria

goforthmylove — Sun, 09 Jun 2013 20:43:57 -0400

insomniac-poetry:

I want to pry your heart open

and get inside your mind

so I can understand

what it’s like to be so hurt

and how you’re always longing to disappear

To understand how you turn such madness

into beauty

every Friday night at dance class

or how you still have the heart to smile

on your birthday

even though you lost your best friend

And your tears continue to smother you

and though your wrists are decorated

like railroad tracks

you still concur this ongoing battle

I want to examine every scar you have

and determine why someone

so fascinating

has shaky hands and running makeup

every time you’re alone

And you’ll continue to hide yourself

like a caterpillar in a cocoon

because I don’t think butterflies

see their elegance

and you don’t either, not at all

Amy’s note: This is beautiful; I think we’ve all had a friend or two that amazes us by being so strong.