black. mother. womanist. queer. writer. veg. lover

Showing 53 posts tagged poetry

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Paul Laurence Dunbar

thiswillnotlast:

Pieces of bone, Yrsa Daley-Ward.

bone now available to buy on Amazon and etsy!

damn, a few of these really hit home!

(Source: yrsadaleyward, via nayyirahwaheed)

shedont-lye:

i lost a whole continent.  a whole continent from my memory.  unlike all the other hyphenated americans my hyphen is made of blood. feces. bone. when africa says hello my mouth is a heartbreak because i have nothing in my tongue to answer her. i do not know how to say hello to my mother.
—Nayyirah Waheed

shedont-lye:

i lost a whole continent.
a whole continent from my memory.
unlike all the other hyphenated americans
my hyphen is made of blood. feces. bone.
when africa says hello
my mouth is a heartbreak
because i have nothing in my tongue
to answer her.
i do not know how to say hello to my mother.

—Nayyirah Waheed

(via shedont-lye)

You’re drunk in a bathtub
with a red cup full of Birthday Cake flavored vodka
wearing a headdress
made of neon Dollar Store chicken feathers.
You’re half naked in a grassy field
with drugstore lipstick smeared under your eyes
dropping acid
and wearing moccasins from Urban Outfitters.
You can’t wait for Coachella
so you can finally smoke a peace pipe in a tepee
and find your Spirit Animal.
You think Native American culture is so beautiful
and clumsily show it with your
hashtags on tumblr and Instagram.
But when actual Indigenous people tell you that
Gypsy, Squaw and Red Injun are all racist slurs
Headdresses are sacred
and war paint on your white face is insulting
You say
“I’m just appreciating your beautiful culture!
I’m 1/16th Cherokee.”
Ignoring the fact that running around
naked in the woods on shrooms
will not connect you with any tribe
and that your great great great great grandmother
along with the rest of the Cherokee people
never wore headdresses.
"1/16th Cherokee" by sumblr (via calamityjaneporter)

(Source: ursulamisandress, via nizzerd)

8. I promise to only kneel at the alter formed by her hips, build a church of our arched limbs. Kiss the insides of her thighs till she sweats every lover before me out of her.
I’m not the jealous type
but I know the addiction of being strung out to old ties…

Ten steps into her…

(via ciciross)

Damn

(via decolonizeyourmind)

But what are the other 9 steps? I need to know!

(Source: unboundblackboi, via decolonizeyourmind)

My mother calls
to tell me about her day
and I listen,
because I know
there’s no one else who will.

My mother asks me
to tell her about mine,
so I tell her only the good things
and keep the rest inside
because words travel distances
but her loving hands cannot.

My mother asks me
if I am happy,
and I tell her that I am;
I ask her the same question
and she says ‘yes,
if you are, I am’;
and I know that some lies
are worth telling.

My mother reminds me
to be strong through it all,
to remember to be modest
and to always keep
my head up high;
” I’ve given you everything,”
she says,
” make me proud.”

But my mother doesn’t know
that everything comes with
her shame attached;
that the child of an immigrant
cannot smile without guilt,
cannot feel without pain,
cannot be without fear.

My mother asks
if I understand,
and I say yes,
I can’t unlearn it.

And when my mother
asks when I’m coming home,
I know she’s asking for me
to never forget;

“Soon,”
I promise her;
Soon.

© 2013 Maza - Dohta (via maza-dohta)

I’m gonna go cry now. This is beautiful.

feelings.

(via mexicatiahui)

(via somewomenarekingstoo)

If pain must come, may it come quickly. Because I have a life to live, and I need to live it in the best way possible. If he has to make a choice, may he make it now. Then I will either wait for him or forget him.
Paulo Coelho, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept (via psych-facts)

(via the-answer-is-within-me)

I didn’t need
you
to fix me.
I needed you to
love
me while
I fix
myself.
Michelle K., Fixing Myself. (via michellekpoems)

(via shaniroti)

booksexual:

cultural appropriation is putting fireflies in a jar

and letting them light up your bedroom

as you drift off to sleep.

and when you wake up all the lights have flickered out

but only when you’re older do you realize

you slowly suffocated them so

that you could enjoy their glow.

(via lahciguapa)