To-Not-Do, To-Do

It’s a task;
Trying not to be hardened
By the world
You have to live in,
Because there is no other one,
Because there is no other you.

It’s a task;
To not succumb
To ideals that weren’t made for you
Because you weren’t born that way,
Because you aren’t man-made.

It’s a task;
Trying not to listen
To the resonating words
Of your parents inside your head.
Because while they are wise,
Their time has passed
And it is you who has to live
With yourself and
The decisions you make.

It’s a task;
Learning to love yourself,
When all your life you’ve been told
That you’re ugly,
When you never got picked for anything,
Because your beauty wasn’t obvious
Like everyone else’s,
Because your beauty was far inside you.

It’s a task;
Thinking on your own,
Seeking knowledge for yourself,
Instead of being a receptacle
For whatever is distributed
By who knows whom,
Because you know that’s not all there is,
Because you know many things are missing.

It’s a task;
Trying not to explode
When more articles cross your eyes
About why it is not okay
For you to copied while being hated as the original.
Because why does it not look good on me
When I was the one born with it?

It’s a task;
Trying to grasp the truth
That there are some – many –
Who really don’t know
That the darkness still exists,
That it did not disappear
Because many fought and died,
Because many today still die
Despite their desperate fight
To remain alive.

It’s a task;
Trying to raise children
In a world that doesn’t love them,
To explain to other
That we are not other,
That they are not pure
That we are all mixtures
That it is far too late in time
To claim separate onenesses,
That we are all one
And all the same
That the reason we are different
Is because of a made up name.
It really doesn’t exist.
There is nothing
To prove it true,
That beneath our varying shades of skin
Our blood is all the same hue.

It’s a task;
Trying to keep race out of anything these days,
To remain silent
When an other says
“It doesn’t always have to be” about it.
It’s a task to not to talk back,
To change my vision
From what I’ve been made to see.
It’s a task to keep my insides from boiling
Every time I think about anything,
Like if I happen to die prematurely,
It may not, as I have thought, be the result
Of any traffic accident, or a natural disaster,
Or maybe being struck by lightning,
But that it may be the result
Of my skin causing someone to think
I am dangerous,
That my dark hands
Might somehow be conceived
As criminal, as threatening,
That I may not die by accident at all,
But that I may be killed
Because I happened to be born
The colour of the earth.

Everything It Is

It’s religion.
It’s love.
It’s time.
It’s family.
It’s government and politics and me being black.
It’s me being scared and my brother being five.
It’s my grandmother coming and my father growing old.
It’s my nephew, about to be born into this world.
It’s my mother, unfairly and unexpectedly extinguished.
It’s my country, unable to support me well
and my heart not being able to love another one.
It’s the love of my life, us separated by a sea.
It’s my fear to tell my father, while unconcerned he may be.
It’s the never knowing when, having to wait on time,
but knowing that once it passes it can never be refined.
This presses me to take action, but I should be careful of doing things in haste.
Sometimes it is better to wait,
but then you might get stuck with the ifs.
It’s the ignorance of the masses which includes myself.
It’s me not being sure I want to know, in case I cannot help.
It’s the world I live in.
It’s the time of now.
It’s me not being able to escape it.
It’s knowing it needs to be reshaped somehow.
It’s wondering if I’ll be alive to see any change take place.
It’s wanting to damn it all to hell since I will die in any case.
And since I have limited time, should I not just focus on myself?
I am only one person;
One more figurine on the shelf.

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I think one of the things I was worried about when starting this blog is happening, has happened actually – several times. I keep getting busy with life and worrying about life that I forget to blog. That or I criticize my writing too much and end up leaving it in the drafts folder.

I keep thinking about my voice lately, or rather I’m hearing it. Just me. I keep hearing my voice in my head talking to other people, but there’s actually no one there to hear what I’m saying. And I don’t know where to put what I’m saying. I don’t know if I want to put it on my personal Facebook page. I don’t think I can do YouTube videos; I don’t have the personality for that. I also don’t want to do videos on Facebook, and I have almost no one on Snapchat so I think that’s kind of pointless. I always end up deleting my snaps before anyone sees them anyway – because I’m embarrassed of my voice. I don’t have confidence in it. That and I know I’m full of air. I don’t have facts standing behind me, just what I know of history and the present, which is very little, and what I feel about all of it. I don’t want to be another opinionated person just letting stuff go into the world, but I do want to speak and I do want others to hear. That was probably a part of why this blog began. I wanted to speak through my poetry, but then it wasn’t enough. It was too little, too inadequate, but then so were my words outside of that. I wanted to talk about my life, how I felt about things happening to me. I wanted to talk about my world, but mine isn’t the only one that exists and is also not the most important. It was hard for me to acknowledge this, but I have. I am not the only person in the world. I am not the only one having a hard time, worrying, dealing with issues related to family, education, or whatever else. Everyone is going through some sort of struggle – and not just one. Therefore mine cannot be foremost in others minds. However it is understandable that it is foremost in mine.

This doesn’t even have paragraphs. I haven’t even said what I wanted to.

I can’t always be responsible for other’s feelings.

That was it. That was what I wanted to say.

I need to stop this. I have realized how fragile life is and how quickly it can be lost. I still don’t understand my mother’s passing. The poor woman went to the hospital for a surgery she had had so many times before. She had gone home, but something was wrong. Now she will never see her grandchildren, if I or my sister have children. She will never see us get married. She never saw me graduate. She never saw my little sister turn 21. I bet she never thought she would not be around to see those things. My sister and I surely didn’t.

Why am I worrying about fleeting, minuscule things then, things that will not matter in a short while? The amount of energy I have wasted…

I want to live. I want others to do the same. My life is only mine. Only I will live with the regrets and the memories. I should create things I will have pleasure remembering. I don’t want to be old and look back at my life with regret. I want to like my life. I want to live it. I will never get to do this again.

I digress. I apologize.