Who benefits from my belief?
Because the last I checked it wasn't me
I mean I am a black girl
Living In a racist misogynistic world
Because why would I worship a god who allowed my people to suffer
Yet caters to the needs of our oppressors
Allows them to call us s
Why would I believe
Why would I worship
Why would I pray
To a god who ignored my ancestors
Please go ahead
Make me understand
How your god created this world
But allows racism
So tell me how religion benefits a black person
Because to me and many others
It seems like a weapon
To keep us broken
In a world that sees us as subhuman
As 'god' watches us suffer
Whilst having the power
To fix this problem
So I ask again
Who benefits from my belief
The only correct answer
Is those who don't look like me
So why would I subscribe
To a religion
To a god
Who clearly hates me
I had been fooled
She used her foreign to-meness
To arouse me into
Wanting her
She had been taught such
To find facts
Which she could use against
Me
My teaching never included
That of the body
and my job made it
easy for me to be used,
This her samplings of together ess
Made either subhuman from
Wanting. Or extrahuman from
Needing. A desire of her flesh
made togetherness tolerable
I looked forward to being
With her even as she was my
enemy.
This the nights of froth,
Would be defined through our
Love making. She made time
enough to seduce me her time
and labor as a woman, could make
even the scariest of sameness
In afterlude nonexistent that she
Was a woman in all affairs of
womanism!
The Chill of loneliness are warmed
By her expression to
Procreate and
Be mine!
I had been fooled
She used her foreign to-meness
To arouse me into
Wanting her
She had been taught such
To find facts
Which she could use against
Me
My teaching never included
That of the body
and my job made it
easy for me to be used,
This her samplings of together ess
Made either subhuman from
Wanting. Or extrahuman from
Needing. A desire of her flesh
made togetherness tolerable
I looked forward to being
With her even as she was my
enemy.
This the nights of froth,
Would be defined through our
Love making. She made time
enough to seduce me her time
and labor as a woman, could make
even the scariest of sameness
In afterlude nonexistent that she
Was a woman in all affairs of
womanism!
The Chill of loneliness are warmed
By her expression to
Procreate and
Be mine!
If you allow the history to overshadow the change,
you'll focus on the past more than the present day,
becoming more accustomed to a gone reality,
where racism was open and of the majority,
back then the world was thoughtless, not like ours today
they thought you all subhuman and kept you out the way
through bigoted delusion they oppressed you into place
when narcissistic mindsets had no knowledge of disgrace
Now, today, you're in our vision as we allow you take the stage
with sensitivity we listen and confront those past mistakes
we've acceptance that was missing as we learn the world you face
feeling shamed we join your mission respecting you for what it takes
saddened by the small minority still showing you that hate
for every racist out there you've a hundred thousand mates
support will keep on growing whilst those racists go to waste
for the first time we've a future with ONE multi-human race
FALSE HOPES
She appeared just from nowhere
And I fell in love with her.
I thought she was my love forever
But she turned out just a blur.
I wanted her to be my friend
Rejoiced for no seeming reason,
Believed she’d love me in the end
But she squeezed me and left freezin’.
I thought she was my joy,
Star on the path of my life,
Believed in her - half-witted boy!
And wished her to be my wife.
She turned the devil incarnate,
The very devil in her flesh.
Her eyes were evil, full of hate.
They were rotten, never fresh.
Although she was a short young age,
She sounded off like a subhuman.
With youthful spleen and warlike rage,
And I preferred an earthly woman.
Thank you, Mr. Rogers (yes, his real name!)
for rescuing me from teenage purgatory.
Perplexed teenager, lacking social lumen
pulled C's in English, D's in History -
my dreadful retrograde trajectory
projected no collegiate acumen,
in prom discussions, practically subhuman!
Then, your poetical geometry
and sleek Cartesian choreography
became my sailing ship, and I, its crewman.
Derivatives soon danced in arcs non-static.
Pythagorean proofs helped me progress,
vectors resolved problems that once would vex.
Your agile algebra of joy quadratic:
my new hypotenuse of happiness
helped me to find myself... I solved for x.
Written 13 March 2020
( Poem about Kurdish Iranian teenager attacked in Croydon)
Refugee boy
Just 17
Yet your eyes have seen so much
Now so far from home and loved ones
You thought you were free from danger
In your land of refuge
Life was routine again
College and a visit to the teahouse on the way home
It was familiar, cosy
You said you were lucky you were here
Just before…
A pack of ‘hyenas’ set upon you
You had invaded their ‘territory’
Drunk and vicious subhuman dregs of society
They kicked your slender frame
Again, again and again
They cracked your skull, your spine
And left you for dead
Some ‘hyenas’ circled
Watched and jeered
You are stronger than them
They could not break your spirit
You were meant to live, Godspeed
Most people are friendly, most people are nice
The lunatic fringe cause the crap to be precise
A necessary evil
These subhuman people
Been around forever these murderous lice
Her hands gnarled and knotted
slumping as she walked
some called out when she was spotted
her shout name was Lady Dumpster
as she staggered along, she talked
folks tried to help her—she balked
When she was a girl, she was plump
family lived near the dump ground
her dad called her “the big lump”
everything they owned was found
from digging in the garbage dump
Maggie never finished school
rumor floated round the town
(pregnant by a family member)
her brother said to be so cruel
someone made her sister drown
No baby, no Maggie!
sadly lost from the start
an elusive character no longer human
years later, out she came pushing her cart
her dignity and mind were now subhuman
Her saga does not end well
life for her, a living hell
under a bridge lay Maggie quite frozen
holding her dead cat—
So it goes--how fortunate for that
she died in a place that she had chosen
This a true story with literary license. © a year ago, Carol Davis
I sit in a tent, rain pouring down
My children are crying, no food to eat.
My spirit is failing, starting to drown,
Hands clasped in prayer, my God to entreat.
My homeland has perished, corruption and war.
Our houses destroyed, our lives ripped apart.
Inhuman brutality to even the score
The only choice left was to make a new start.
I am not a migrant, nor scum of the Earth
But driven by force at the point of a lance.
Educated, hard working, a person of worth,
Am I not worthy to be given a chance?
Described with derision, insulted and harmed,
Demoted to numbers contained in a speech.
Our boat was a lucky one, only becalmed
The others all drowned, bodies found on a beach.
I am not subhuman, good Lord above
I must give my children a chance to succeed
To live life in freedom, respect and love,
If you prick us do we not bleed?
Most people are friendly, most people are nice
The lunatic fringe cause all the crap to be precise
A necessary evil
These subhuman people
Been around forever these murderous lice
Nostradamus ician incantation once meet.
Informal inveracity of the ignoble sect.
Saviors stylish mercies sensed saving their necks.
Invariably today were imputed more adult.
Placing belittled Bibles on the very top shelf.
Next shelf implement the almanac.
Impending how arrangements tend to imbue.
Saviors sweet tune of the scented cock a too.
Were well deserving of our labors.
Incongruities ignite in-between neighbors.
Inconspicuous identification erupts into trouble.
Soldiers marching ides, on the double.
Truth impugned ; subhuman indelible infamy.
Saviors transcendent healing: iatric stylets.
Next shelf implement the dictionary.
Jesus; Icon; identify; ideal; Icarus; iffy.
Incredulous! how impious ideas initiate with i.
Saviors stance steady, as indignant missiles aren't stones.
Monsters lurk in
Open fields.
Neo demons,
Subhuman lifeforms,
Agents of Amon roam the earth.
Near me they come.
Test me they do.
Oppress me..however..never..they will.
You are not a size
Nor blown up bust and thunder thighs
You are a being
Of emotions, feelings and many unseen
Like a mysterious ocean, you get wet on coast and deep
But precious jewels at the bottom are the ones to keep
Ultimate creation
No need for subhuman appreciation
Glowing like a happy star
Knowing who you are
One glance and you are there
Like a fresh breath of air
Can't live without
The divine proof for every doubt.
Tuesday 13/1/2015
8:26 am
SICK
Aromas lose their piquant charm
Another double door, Another vapid hall
No dazzling puzzles to disarm
--- no witty repartee
Nothing to look forward to
But another dance of pain
Another vacuous doctor handshake--
clinic bred and born
eyes that hesitate to meet my gaze
whirlwinds grab particles of sound and sight from cyber space
twirling and creating subhuman characters without hard edges
--capture each tintinabulation and bouncing glance--
Hope spirals down the sterile drain
Victoria Anderson-Throop 2013©
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