"I wear lipstick, for my lips stick to the ears of men so they can experience in surround sound my screams of agony"
So it's 3:05 and I'm up.If you
couldn't tell by now i love writing.
Absofuckinglutely love it.
that should explain why I am a
soooper fan of Ill-literacy.
Umm there some of the greatest poets
Ive ever heard.
If your an
OG reader you'll
remember when i did a post about
Dahlak he's a part of the poetry collective.(if you wan to see the post, dont trip its in the archives) Shit the header i have is art by
fehouma pecou. (hope i spelled that right) It's a picture of Ruby the groups only girl.
Anyways I fancy myself a poet and want to
eventually slam. (I have to get my game a bit more on par before
I'm ready for that). & i was up watching videos of poetry and i just
couldn't deny them. Usually i keep people to myself and
don't want to share them
lol. I've been a fan for years now and
didn't tell nobody about them but a select few. Their genius is so RAW i just can't be selfish anymore. Everyone needs to hear what they have to say.
with that said cut to the videoheres a poem by one of the groups poets
Adriel named
Slip Of The Tongue& I so kindly got the words to the poem.
I mean to hear his delivery is enough but to read what he came up with is
jus AHHHH__________________
My glares burn through her.
And I’m sure that such actions
aren’t foreign to her
because the essence of her beauty is, well, the essence of beauty.
And in the presence of this higher being,
the weakness of my masculinity kicks in,
causing me to personify my wannabe big-
baller, shot-caller,
God’s gift to the female species with shiny suit wrapping rapping like,
“Yo, what’s
crackin shorty how you
livin’ what’s your sign what’s your size I dig your style, yo.”
Now, this girl was no fool.
She gives me a dirty look with the quickness like,
“Boy, you must be stupid.”
so I’m looking at myself,
“Boy, you must be stupid.”
But looking upon her I am kinda
feelin’ her style.
So I try again.
But, instead of addressing her properly,
I blurt out one of my fake-ass
playalistic lines like,
“
Gurl, you must be a traffic ticket
cuz you got fine written all over you.”
Now, she’s trying to leave and I’m trying to keep her here.
So at a final attempt, I utter,“
Gurl, what is your ethnic makeup?”
At this point, her glare was scorching through me,
and somehow she manages to make her brown eyes resemble some kinda brown fire or something,
but there’s no snap or head movement,no palm to face, click of tongue, middle finger,roll of eyes, twist of lips, or girl power chant.
She just glares through me with these burning eyes and her gaze grabs you by the throat.
She says, “Ethnic makeup?”
She says, “First of all, makeup’s just an anglicized, colonized,
commodified utilitythat my sisters have been programmed to consume,
forcing them to cover up their natural state in order to imitate what another sister looks like in her natural state
because people keep telling
herthat the other sister’s natural state is more beautiful than the first sister’s natural state.
At the same time,the other sister
isn’t even in her natural state,because she’s trying to imitate yet another sister,so in actuality, the natural state that the first sister’s trying to imitate
wasn’t even natural in the first place.”
Now I’m thinking,
“Damn, this girl’s kicking knowledge!”
But, meanwhile, she keeps spitting on it like
“Fine. I’ll tell you bout my ‘ethnic makeup.’
I wear foundation,not that powdery shit,
I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people.
It’s that foundation that makes it so that past being globalized,
I can still vocalize with confidence that i know where my roots are.
I wear this foundation not upon my face, but within my soul,
and I take this from my ancestors because
I’ll be damned if I’d ever let an American or European corporation tell me what my
foundationshould look like.”
I wear lipstick,for my lips stick to the ears of men,
so they can experience in surround sound my screams of
agonywith each lash of rulers, measuring tape, and scales,
as if my waistline and weight are inversely
propotional to my value as a human being.
See my lips, they stick, but not together.Rather, they flail open with flames to burn down this culture that once kept them shut.
Now, I mess with eye shadow,but my eyes shadow over this time where you’
ve gone at ends to keep me blind.
But you can’t cover my eyes, look into them.
My eyes foreshadow change.
My eyes foreshadow light.
and I’m not into hair dyeing.
but I’m here, dying, because this oppression won’t get out of my hair.
I have these highlights.
They are highlights of my past atrocities,they form this oppression I can’t wash off.
It tangles around my mind and twists and braids me in layers,this oppression manifests,it’s stressing me so that even though I don’t color my hair,in a couple of years it’ll look like I dyed it gray.
So what’s my ethnic makeup ?
I don’t have any.
Because your ethnicity
isn’t something you can just make up.
And as for that crap my sisters paint on their faces, that’s not makeup, it’s make-believe.”
I can’t seem to look up at her.
and I’m sure that such actions
aren’t foreign to her because the expression on her face shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance.
As her footsteps fade,
my ego is left in crutches.
And rejection never sounded so sweet.
Mmm Mmmm Mmmmm
How Your Mind?
..Blown?
