missgreyday:

To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before

brombie:

racismschool:

Definition: What You Owe Me

What You Owe Me- white people love to talk about the fact that they think PoC feel owed. Well, now you have your answer. This video is what you owe me. For every “…but me too” for every “Not ALL white people” for every accusation of “Reversed Racism” for every “Get raped with a jackhammer and die you ugly nigger cunt“ that shows up UNOPPOSED but always on the COWARDLY Anon in curiouslycool’s ask box, for every “Kill yourself nigger“ that shows up UNOPPOSED but always on the COWARDLY Anon in whatwhiteswillneverknow’s ask box, for every single time you speak without listening and for every time you demand an explanation without being worthy of our time, you owe me, nay us, 500 romantic deaths.

This is what you owe and damn it, you are in a deep debt.  

This is what YOU owe. Not your ancestors. This is what YOU owe, not your parents. YOU. It is you who knock down our conversations about pain by adding more pain. It is YOU who step on our toes with your shouts of “Not all white people.” Well, maybe not ALL white people but definitely YOU. 

Until you bring us 500 romantic deaths of your unarmed, uncriminal like brethren who are all under the age of 21 given to you directly from the police, you don’t get to say ANY of the above. Each day, the toll goes up. Each day, you owe me more. It hasn’t happened to “You too” until you’ve paid your fare.

Video: “Lost Count: A Love Story”

REBLOGGING AGAIN. POC HAVE HAD THIS HAPPEN IN THEIR LIVES SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME, IT’S TIME TO FUCKING CHANGE, OUR ANCESTORS ARE DEAD, IT IS US THAT HAS TO PAY THE BILL OF RESPECT THAT EVERY PERSON DESERVES FUCK

(via bbanzaiz)

(Source: adamonroe, via tequilaflavoredkisses)

Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girl 

This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous), and their doubts about religion. 

 Here’s the link

(via blua)

oh my gosh

(via erikawithac)

(Source: katyuno, via laylalicious-is-so-vicious)

Muckraking is Women's Work: Trayvon could never have run fast enough

muckrakingiswomenswork:

even if the wings of Nike herself had sprung from his back
he never could have outrun
a bullet
aimed at his heart
the trigger pulled
before he was even born
Black in this world

He learned the lessons we teach our young in sofla so well
don’t run m’ijo
no sudden moves
always walk calm…

(via creouniverso)

1:21: EVOLUTION

adailyriot:

skinlikeautumnleaves:

Evolution

Buffalo Bill opens a pawn shop on the reservation
right across the border from the liquor store
and he stays open 24 hours a day,7 days a week

and the Indians come running in with jewelry
television sets, a VCR, a full-lenght beaded buckskin outfit
it took Inez Muse 12 years to finish. Buffalo Bill

takes everything the Indians have to offer, keeps it
all catalogues and filed in a storage room. The Indians
pawn their hands, saving the thumbs for last, they pawn

their skeletons, falling endlessly from the skin
and when the last Indian has pawned everything
but his heart, Buffalo Bill takes that for twenty bucks

closes up the pawn shop, paints a new sign over the old
calls his venture THE MUSEUM OF NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURES
charges the Indians five bucks a head to enter.

Sherman Alexie

Lessons

selchieproductions:

Our teachers asked us to bring photos
of our ancestors, so I went to the museum
and used my point-and-shoot
to etch the bones pulled from my peoples’ graves
on the inside of my eyelids. 

Our teachers asked about names
and I wondered if they wanted
the name they couldn’t pronounce or
the Latin letters left by the flames
eating away that which once used to be us. 

Our teachers asked us many questions
but in the end they never learnt a single thing. 

this is stunning, Johan. 

(via binesi-manidoo)

My Kingdom of Little Things

ayiman:

My kingdom of little things 
Ended with you 
I no longer possess things alone 
Arrange flowers alone 
Or read books alone 
You came between 
My eyes and my paper 
Between my mouth and my voice 
My head and my pillow 
My fingers and my cigarette. 

Of course 
I do not complain 
Of your living inside me 
Or your interfering with the movement of my hands 
Of the blinking of my eyes 
Of the speed of my thoughts 
The fig trees 
Do not complain of housing too many birds 
The cups do not complain
Of holding too much wine.

-Nizar Qabbani

(via nijireiki)

Here I Love You by Pablo Neruda

silizamargarita:

Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.

Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

(via lebanesepoppyseed)

“I Give You Back”, by Joy Harjo (TRIGGER WARNING: rape/sexual assault, genocide)

nachashnechoshet:

I release you, my beautiful and terrible 
fear. I release you. You were my beloved 
and hated twin, but now, I don’t know you 
as myself. I release you with all the 
pain I would know at the death of 
my daughters.

You are not my blood anymore.

I give you back to the white soldiers 
who burned down my home, beheaded my children, 
raped and sodomized my brothers and sisters. 
I give you back to those who stole the 
food from our plates when we were starving.

I release you, fear, because you hold 
these scenes in front of me and I was born 
with eyes that can never close.

I release you, fear, so you can no longer 
keep me naked and frozen in the winter, 
or smothered under blankets in the summer.

I release you 
I release you 
I release you 
I release you

I am not afraid to be angry. 
I am not afraid to rejoice. 
I am not afraid to be black. 
I am not afraid to be white. 
I am not afraid to be hungry. 
I am not afraid to be full. 
I am not afraid to be hated. 
I am not afraid to be loved.

to be loved, to be loved, fear.

Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash. 
You have gutted me but I gave you the knife. 
You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire. 
You held my mother down and raped her, 
                        but I gave you the heated thing.

I take myself back, fear. 
You are not my shadow any longer. 
I won’t hold you in my hands. 
You can’t live in my eyes, my ears, my voice 
my belly, or in my heart my heart 
my heart    my heart

But come here, fear 
I am alive and you are so afraid 
                                          of dying.

(via fuckyeahjimcarroll)

serenaiam:

weepling:

Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

Pablo Neruda is my favorite poet of all time.

(via life-is-the-great-adventure-dea)

(Source: kittymob, via lavender-haze)

so I might now be considering writing erotic poetry as a career

but it’s definitely time for this birdy to return to her nest good night lovelies <3