I
am a mix of cultures, languages and traditions,
none
of them definitions.
My
accent so thick,
people
get sick
of
listening.
My
disease is picking a side
because
I am not purified,
my
bones and blood
dragged
through the mud,
because
I don't fit in a box or a square,
made
for perfect hair and skin care.
I
am sick of the questions and suggestions,
the
constant reassurance that I am not like you,
just
here to teach you a lesson about world view,
or
to fill your diversity spot,
so
you don't have to give us a second thought.
A
never ending game of “Can you pronounce this?”
as
they laugh, drenched in never ending bliss.
“Not
from here” labeled on me,
as
they asked me why I flee,
never
wanting to hear
that
I was born right here.
I
wonder if people need to listen to me speak or if my look is enough,
to
call out my bluff,
that
I am hiding under a mask,
afraid
you will ask.
My
brain juggles three languages faster
than
you can call me a disaster,
and
although I am always mumbling,
fumbling,
over
my own words.
I'm
three-thirds,
of
what you would call,
reasons
to put up a wall.
Why
can't we be united?
Because
I would be delighted
to
open up my arms,
to
not set off any alarms,
and
just say yes,
and
clean up this mess,
to
show our ancestors
why
we are protesters.
Points: 3240
Reviews: 51
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