This summer I took some chances while listening to Chance the Rapper because I liked the beat But listened to Kendrick when I wanted some street poetry Some urban poetry From poets who grew up in suburban towns with an urban state of mind Designed to have inclined to remind mankind of what it’s l
There once was a girl named Sarah But no one knew her name. “Loser!” the prissy, perfect girls screeched. The word sang in her ears. Silence.
The night arrives. She is crying herself to sleep. Nobody cares for her. She didn’t realize the words would hit so deep. Silence.
“People just choose to be pink, everyone is born blue.” “People with pink marks are going straight to hell.”
“There are places to go to get your pink mark made blue again, so why not go?” “These millennials with their pink marks.”
“Blue marks are the superior marks.” “Hello.”
Aria pointed at the little flower on her ankle with a short, chubby finger and asked her mother in her unpracticed, fragmented English about what it was. “Pretty,” she said, her ‘r’ little too rounded and her voice broken up by her childish laughter.
I hate diaspora poetry as much as the next fed-up immigrant
All that bullshit about “lives stained with honey and turmeric” and “the colonizer cutting my tongue with aluminum shears” is utterly boring
The night before my first day of sixth grade, I studied the piece of fabric laid out on my bed with uncharacteristic placidity. It was no work of art; plain cotton fabric, dyed black, with a single strip of black lace for adornment.
When I needed a white sheet for Toga day at school, my father immediately gave me his own white cloth. The weave was loose and rough, with a smooth strip of gold running down one side, so large I thought it was a sari.
Once I was through the door, I dashed down the stairs to my room, flinging myself onto my bed, sobbing. I felt so stupid, so clutzy, so worthless. Questions flooded my mind. Who am I? Am I really Amy? Or am I someone else? I didn’t know anymore.
I sit on the roof of the building, my legs dangling off the edge. It would be so easy to just lean forward a bit. To finally be free from my life. I consider the idea for a moment, and almost decide to do it and take my freedom, when I hear footsteps behind me.
Names. Titles given to us at birth by someone with no idea of who we are or what we'll become, they are iron-clad chains bound to our lifetimes by those who want us to be something great. We do not all fit our names and we do not all fit in those boxes; a name is always just a name.
iconic narcotic, cut it with a straight edge, that’s ironic, feelings are chronic, brought without logic, she broke in with a lock pick, to purify the toxic, joint sockets, fill his deep pockets, talk to him, but change the topic
lace up your sneakers and roll up your jeans: your jeans are blue and worn in the knees because they’re your favorite and the laces on your sneakers used to be white but now they are tinted brown from the dirt of the earth you walk through. you step outside and take in the the scenery around yo
oh my gosh what song is this oh my god is it that song that song i first heard god it must have been the summer before middle school listen to those horns it must have been npr’s all songs considered i always forget about this song finding it again is such a pleasant surprise gosh that was years
My brain likes to run amuck. Some days it gets stuck on the same thought: You are in love with someone and they do not love you. You ate too much today and are now chubby, too chubby in fact to be loved by anybody. You will never achieve anything of importance in your life. You are a terrible
The streets, full of people rushing to and fro. Stepping on the paved concrete, wearing it out slowly, like nothing. Night spreads through, covering everything, like a blanket. The wind breezes past the buildings, standing high and powerful. Nothing else, no light, no sounds, no people. Deserted
50% Polish, 50% Russian I thought. It all changed in Rehovot. I flipped through the book. The dining table crowded with voices. “Tracing our roots” He said Turning the page. The faces of those like me gazed up from the page. Aunts, uncles, cousins, relatives I’ve never seen. “We visited the
Pakistan and America Eastern and western but they feel like the north and south poles I’m immersed in the red silk dresses embroidered by hand and I’m in love with the ability to roam alone across this land I’m submerged in the value of education before all but I’m also tangled in love and lust,
Unsure. About the question, or the world? Unsure whether to answer truthfully, or to fabricate a more intriguing narrative. Unsure what the question implies: Fears, (Spiders, bad grades, falling out of love) or physicalities, (Brown eyes, red cheeks, mutilated fingernails) or fa
Bounty brand paper towels; you know it by name “The quick picker upper”, thirst pockets Outnumbering the leading brands not only in price But in absorbency Who would have thought that a simple household object Could be comparable to humanly functions? You see, I am quite absorbent myself Believe
I am the center of the universe My problems are complex My thoughts are intricate, my experiences unique Surely no one else can live this way? What a cruel realization it is Such a curious paradox of existence In the monumental movie that is my life, Every passerby Every random person I see for a