Knock Knock Jokes, or Writer's Block Haiku

Knock Knock Jokes

(Writer's Block Haiku)

knock knock- who's there? what

do you call a writer who

never writes? a joke.

Diaspora Dysphoria

Look I write something! I'm actually trying to perform this for the One World show my school has every year. I just auditioned it today, so let's hope for the best <3

Still have to work of some of it, but most of it is here.

Diaspora Dysphoria

I am a child of diaspora.

Last name I have no ties to,

First name my mother heard on Sesame Street,

Names give me no solace.

My mama’s mama was a product of love soured

By a nationwide obsession with race and colour:

A story of a baby too brown

For anyone but her mother to love.

A story that comes back ‘round to me when they say,

‘Psst, t’ick sauce wit’ de nice hair.’

They call me dougla.

By the time I outgrew my obsession with bindis and tikas

And my one true dream to be bollywood dancer,

Classmates told me I was too proper to be black.

They call me dougla.

But ever so often I throw around mulatto

And try and forget the oppression behind it.

Two generations later, I have no ties to coco panyol

Other than passing mention.

The only name I have for this,

The only name I have for me,

Is confused.

At home they say, ‘dougla, what yuh mix wit’?’

But here they say black is black.

‘Are you ashamed?’

Am I ashamed?

Not of the blackness

Or the whiteness

Or the Indian-ness

Or the Syrian-ness

Or the whatever-else-it-have-ness.

Just confused.

Because things like race have always baffled me.

Because race implies someone must win.

Because when I look in the mirror

And I see the roundness of my nose,

The curliness of my hair,

The sharpness of my cheeks

And the brownness of my skin,

I am neither ashamed nor confused;

just euphoric.

Death Throes

Morbid fascination

kills me again and again.

These are the death throes

Of our potential.

This is the not the martyrdom

I try to tell myself it is.

It is assisted suicide.

Nor is it the first time-

Reincarnation ad nauseam,

Same me, different yous-

Till nirvana:

A state I cannot reach.

It sickens me,

The way I crave

Your attentions.

Like Tantalus I thirst

And am never satisfied.

You bloom perpetual

While I fade like echoes.

Jeweled fruit that fall

From your lips

Into my ears

Sweet fruit, biting aftertaste,

Like soured wine to the dying man,

Leaves me empty and bitter.

I am killed softly

By the words you never speak.

Impotency

Stagnancy-bred frustration

Angry at what I wanted to do but didn’t

What I didn’t do but could have.

Listlessness taints everything,

Even my rage is impotent.

Carnival Poem I

(I'm not dead).

Carnival Poem I

The music whips you into mania

And the sweat of the masses incites to ecstasy

If religion is the opiate,

This is the tonic.

Sweet like cascadoo,

Rush of power like cocaine,

Addictive like morphine.

We are the vessels

The street is the vein

Infecting all with

Wuk-up-yuh-waist-osis

And free-up-yuh-self-itis.

It is a chronic epidemic

Where the only cure

Is to succumb to the disease;

More riddim,

More kaiso,

More tempo.

Heart Burn

Hey guys, i'm not dead! I wrote a poem and everything. Read on for delicious teen angst. -.-

Heartburn

You are bad for my heart.

Premature ventricular contractions,

Unexpected palpitations,

Chronic pain that no

Clinically proven prescription can palliate,

With prolonged burning from passions

Long since passed.

All you’d left was a hole,

And I was defective.

Recovery is slow,

I’m still clogged with thoughts of you,

But the heart is a muscle

So I’m working it out to be stronger.

Remission lulls into complacency,

So relapse is swift, acutely reminding

That chronic pain is persistent.

It is a return of the now-expected,

Unexpected palpitations:

You are still bad for my heart.

Flash Fiction Friday #38: Obeah Ting

FINALLY!!!

i am sooo sorry i took so long to do it :/ tried something a little different here, please comment on its effectiveness.

fff#38: (starter) what i/you/he/she/it/we/they didn't know...

What she didn’t know was that I would do for she. She was rubbin up under my man when I tell she to stop it an she never take meh on. Well I had tell her I was a obeah woman too an she didn’t listen to dat neither. Yuh see granny had d gift and mummy was to get it too but mummy say dat was simmi-dimmi foolishness an she didn’t believe in dat kinda voodoo bullshit. Granny tell her dat voodoo an obeah is two different tings but if daz how yuh feel yuh gyul chile go get it instead, d power didn’t really mind. Dat was before mummy even tink bout boys, far less havin a gyul chile, so she steups an say simmi-dimmi bullshit again. So when I eventually pop out ten years later, feet first an d ting over meh eye, granny take one look at me an tell mummy to make sure an sen me by she every weekend so I could learn d ting proper.

 By d time I was five an ready for big school, granny pull me aside an tell me that woman wicked for spite an when I went in school I was to be careful an not let nobody play up in meh hair cause if they get even a strand, they could wuk all kinna ting on meh an I wouldn’t even know. I went tru primary school, an pass meh O’ Levels an everyting was nice, passin everyting, making sure all d teachers like me wit a lil help from granny, an never really havin any trouble wit mummy cause according to granny, mummy was a lil bit frighten of me. But I never really test it, so we was jus normal.

 So I reach form six now an me an dis gyul who was in my school for basically d whole ting but we didn’t really get close till form five an so by lower six she was always in meh house an knew nearly all meh business. So I tell her I was learnin obeah from granny but she jus laugh an say she didn’t believe me so I say aite from den I start to move lil different. Not enough for her to notice eh, but enough that if she do some shit, I coulda handle dah scene. So when she spend d night I take some hair, her toothbrush mysteriously went missing, dat kinna ting, a kinna back-up plan, just in case.

 I remember before I used to hear stories bout her takin people man an jus doin shit but I never really study it because we was rel good nah, but a day she tell me to check her facebook for someting cause her internet wasn’t workin an I see, big an bold, dis bitch talkin to my man on chat! I say, nah! She cyah be movin so, she was probably askin him where I was or someting so, so I open d ting an I see is sweet talkin she sweet talkin him!

 But I say, okay, lemme check an see waz d story behind dis. So I ask an firs she laugh an say she would never do dat kinna ting, but then she start to get on an say how I movin so wit she, like I doh trust she an all kinna ting an I remember d play we learn for lit an is like, d lady doth protest too friggin much! So I tell she to jus stop talkin to him cause we would rel fall out if she continue to jus play up. I musbe have Miss Mary Jackass write on my friggin forehead cause d nex time I check her facebook d bitch was still talkin to him! Clearly she tink I dotish. D man I will deal wit, a lil sweat rice will calm his straying ways, but she, I go do for she. Instead of laughin like a ass when I tell she I does do obeah, she shoulda take it as a warning. Dis will d very last time she will play like she pullin up on people man. I will make sure.