Tell Hell I Aint Coming...A Spoken Word Poem

Slim Greer in Hell
Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online Tell Hell I Aint Coming...A Spoken Word Poem file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with Tell Hell I Aint Coming...A Spoken Word Poem book. Happy reading Tell Hell I Aint Coming...A Spoken Word Poem Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF Tell Hell I Aint Coming...A Spoken Word Poem at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF Tell Hell I Aint Coming...A Spoken Word Poem Pocket Guide. And despite their cold words I do not lose sense of that sacred temple Within the ruins that I now call my heart. I have nothing to be blamed for. I am not the guilty verdict. Brown women wore shisheh in their clothes since the 17th century. I see them on runways, weaved into their embroidery, so cheaply. When for centuries their reflections were enough for a man to fall in love so deeply. Because, brown women have been wearing naths since the 16th century.

I remember one time I wore a bindi to school. I thought it was pretty, they called me a fool. They said go back to your country, with your stinking clothes. And now I see them in almost every music video. Because, brown women have been wearing payals since the first century. Their chimes alone acted as inspiration for poetry. You should read the Cilappatikaram. Because, brown women wore mendhi vale hath since the Vedic century. Patterns on my palms that could put petals to shame. Their stains were enough for lions to lose their tame. Their curves and lines considered hypnotic. Now I bet your henna tattoos make you feel so damn hipster, so damn exotic.

Whilst they mocked our linguistics, the artistic or the symbolic, we were crying to be cut loose from the shackles of colonialism. Oh, the irony of Indian women scraping their heavenly dark skin with beauty creams to make themselves lighter, whilst they fake up their tans, we cry to be whiter. My thick hair was decided for me before I was even in the womb.

We have tried our best to adopt a cultural milieu. Mould ourselves in the surrounding environment like glue, but who are we trying to fool? We just make ourselves look more out of place, like trapped animals in a zoo. That my beautiful culture is not a trend that will pass on like bell bottom jeans and feathered hair, this is my beauty.

But not at the cost of belittlement. And not in combination with a comment on my mothers accent. We have been too busy living in the dust of an empire that burnt our worth, that we refuse to grow from the ashes. So sure, wrap yourself up in a sari, whilst we unravel ourselves from our self hatred and low self esteem. Piece by piece I try to piece together the pieces to find my peace. Please - hear my thank you for putting my mind at ease. It was only at the point when I was down on my knees that I came searching for you. Too blind to see that you were always there, always near, absorbing every tear.

You would hear the nights that I would cry myself to sleep and you stretched out your open arms. I was swerving, the loss of all control. The bleeding from my aching soul. In the darkness, all alone. An anxiety that would strangle my throat and tighten my chest. All whilst I was fighting my own spiritual conquest. But in time I could breathe.

I felt the air filling up my lungs when I said those three sounds.


You passed that power to my parents and encouraged their self-subsistence. Anger created two other versions of this film in and the late s. Her sister vanished when the kettle hollered. Do I seem beautiful. A century later a bird somehow knew. Can you believe this crap?

I let those sounds vibrate through me, shaking off the pain with the roar of your name. The only thing that got me through was you. I begged, I pleaded, I cried and now I thank you. I refuse to go back there, falling into the fog, a pit of blackness that would swallow me whole. My head was spinning, my faith was thinning. But now silk flows with the sound of your name. You calmed the destruction and chaos in my mind. And in time I would find that you would settle the storm. Guide me out of the cold and into the warm. And now I am under the sun.

Blooming, like wild flowers reaching for the sky, reaching for your light. My skin and bones have a purpose knowing you have created them, coloured and shaded them. You have brought me to life. You told me - patience Sherni. Release and let go of that negative energy. And now I no longer speak alone with my soliloquy. You are my audience, my perspective so that I am reflective. So that I learn how to do my sewa and always give.

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So that I learn to heal, not forget but always forgive. Devoted to the ultimate love. I realised that us warriors all need senseis.

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Something to help guide our minds, our souls and not just swordplay. Planting seeds to nurture our minds, but we need to find our teachers. I mean words that flow truth, not just scripture preachers. Be that a father, a mother, a friend or my Gurus. A love that will resurrect me for the ashes, help me heal my bruises. Pain is only as real as you let be. Pain only lasts as long as you let it feed.

Wrap around you like weeds, suffocating, ill hating. You were never broken, you had just melted from all the fire, hurt and humidity. You have made me such a powerful force to be reckoned with. We are all on a journey to find whatever brings us peace. Till we find out ease. Till we grow wings from our spines that let us sore into electric skies with wider eyes, till we reach those higher realms. I know I am here to do great things. Love to be showered. But, now I understand that before I can concur I have to piece by piece try to piece together the pieces to find my peace.

That year that led our soil to be rich with tears. And as it appears, the judgment has been made. Musulman there, Hindu-stan here and Sikhs, well, they can go anywhere? Forget your forefathers son, what defines them means nothing now. What is done is done. You can watch the setting of the sun from your side, behind your line.

Put down your shotgun, leave it there with your zameen. Fourteen million uprooted from their homes. Uprooted like roots of a tree, ripped out of the soil that they belong to.

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Son, let go from that embrace. You can watch the kites soar from the your side, behind your line. Like a pill, drugging us with opium until we are too blind to see our worth. And here we are crying for a rebirth, a change. We used to love our Muslim - Hindu - Sikh neighbour, treated them like our sister and brother. A corpse filled train? Now tell me, how will I explain that the dead were refrained from being cremated?

Yet three are exclusively there, two are here. Tell me how is that fair? Whilst you sit there at the border every day at sunset and you cheer. Two parts of the land stretch out their thirsty hands, and whilst for some their patriotism expands, others are desperately trying to let go of their homelands. Border border, bringing some world order? Losing more than three quarters, burn down those borders. This was mass movement. Listen closely my dear, give me your ear. The blood is still spilling in the soil of Kashmir.

Awake from this life of so called freedom and independence or continue to sleep into a nightmare. I am raising my voice so all the forgotten voices can be heard. And yes, I am her story that as been forgotten from the histories. These historical women treated as if they were mysteries. I am more than every response being an apology. I am every lioness ripping through stereotypes attached to our gender.

I am the feminist agenda, the so called burned bras, the lack of female main role movie stars. I am all the thoughts from the girls in my gender studies seminars. I am the women chained to railings for our vote. I am every hunger strike guarding their throats. I am Ms McCarthy teaching me I could achieve anything. I am the female warriors - Mao Bhago, Boudicca - that could defeat any King. I am my trainers who said I have a mean left hook. I am every woman left out of my school textbooks. I am feminisms waves one, two and three. I am the women ignored in science and technology. I am the men that see that their engagement is vital.

I am the women that refuse to stick to one label or title. I am you, her, him, I am genderless. I am the women who have to try harder at work to impress. I am every skin colour that essentialist feminism has ignored. I am the women that smashed the glass ceiling and soared. I am the governments gender ratios that remain flawed. I am all de bouvoirs essays. I am my father, who said I am the same as my brothers. I am my ancestors, my sister, my grandmothers, I am my mother. I am the women that are making noise with what they write.

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I am the ongoing silent power struggle, the ongoing fight. Oh my little love, what can I say? I wish I could tell you about days that were genuinely okay. We stained those pages as our brothers and sisters would bleed. Men with misinterpretations claiming their thoughts would rule. Whilst these children would fear that nightmares would thunder through those doors with their bullets. Ricocheting through their skin like waves in a flood. Their school shirts pierced.

Their schoolbooks covered with young blood. Ever screen I saw - Bring back our girls. Bring back our girls! Our concerns were no longer sending. Our empathy was no longer extending. These means were adopted by brave men in India, Thailand and in the West. They remained posted on their pedestals, and like blind mice, we trusted. I close my eyes and see libraries stacked with shelves of history books blackened with blood. Us bystanders will be the ones to blame. Our children will search for heroes and to us they shall look, but all we will do is hand them stained red books.

They said you were suitable. That it was time for me to settle down and simply not resist. Your family is respectful, they said. Reputable, and that I should ready my red lengha, as I lost my face in lights and cameras and listened to the laavaan. Were you not listening? One soul in two bodies?

So why would you belittle me and bruise me black and blue till my brain burns through my brown eyes and I bleed, bathing in the bathroom trying to wash away the pain. You sipped on sharab till you could no longer see me. But I found the darkness of the devil in you. You destroyed our marriage, whilst you disguised yourself in your suit and tie, and visited her and her and her from the other night.

You were too much of a fool to feel fear. You keep eating to feel full and drinking to get drunk but will you ever be satisfied? Surely, your sick mind will somehow stop those sleazy encounters. What happened to monogamy? I found out that one was a teen, thirteen or fourteen? Did you strike fear in her too? Telling her this is what all adults do.

You say work kept you late. You are bringing home the big bucks, so I should shut up. Breadwinner, would you like a side of battered bride with that?

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All I surrendered was my sanity and my serenity. My inner peace was pulled out of me along with my plaited hair, as you gripped a handful and smashed my skull into the side of the kitchen worktop, whispering wicked words, whilst I was wishing that I were dead. But I did nothing wrong…. It seems I lost every round.

We were fighting a battle where I was unarmed. You came with swords and bullets to bear through my chest. All I had was closed eyes and clenched fists. This was our marriage, our four laavaan. I had written this poem earlier this year after having a few conversations with some Singhs about the difficulties they faced with their appearance whilst they were growing up.

They found themselves surrounded by images from the Western media and cultural pressures which defined their standards of beauty through clean-shaven men and short hair.

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Tell Hell I Ain't Comin' A Spoken Word Poem is the third in the series of “Spoken Words Poem” by the prolific writer Marcia P. Samuels. This poem tells the. To read the PDF file, you will need Adobe Reader software. You can download the installer and instructions free from the Adobe Web site if you do not have.

So I wrote this poem so that we can all feel beautiful. We shall run wild and free in the savanna. Hunt for our dreams together. We shall change the world. So why call her bad? From her, kings are born. I can stand here with my kesh down my back and my kara on my hand because my father and my mother said I am same as my brothers. That is almost the population of our land here.

Fear of an unbalanced gender-ratio, resulting in a hyper masculine Indian society. More extortion, distortion, more disproportion.

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Within there, I could only see warmth, strength and love. Within those walls I felt pure protection. And upon reflection, I can not thank you enough for the affection, direction, love and perfection. You provided selfless love for a creature that did not even exist. With a breaking back, swollen knees and a bursting bladder.. Right up until delivery day. I will never resent you for not providing me with your milk. They attached stigma to a natural process that was a beautiful as silk. Milk that could fight infections and perhaps even an iq enhancer, super stem cells and cells that fight cancer.

You had to give me powder in a bottle, but you gave me things a thousand times better. You gave me power. You gave me strength. You showed me that a woman was nothing but formidable. You gave me wisdom. You gave me sense. So I learnt that a woman should never depend on her looks. For those nine months that you sheltered me. For those two hundred and seventy four days. For those six thousand, five hundred and seventy four hours.

For every minute since.. My admiration for you can do nothing but bloom. Because you did nothing but love me since you felt me in your womb. Fingertips I'm squeezing the tips of my fingertips just to confirm that this is real. Chameleon I hide my east london accent neatly under my tongue when they need me to be fancy. I'm torn, Between tucking my blouse into my high waisted skirt and hiding my converses under my bed.

Because they said, If I pretend that my first home wasn't on top of a corner shop, Then maybe I'll get the job. We didn't know the lingo. Baaz Only the sun knew what was about to happen as the clouds cloaked the sky, He watched them gather from the corner of his eye. If a poet loves you. End of the Tunnel. The Moment The moment you realise that true contentment can be found when you serve others, all other desires will seem so small. Victima Did you know that the word victim came from the Latin word, victima - meaning sacrificial animal.

So I say hey what now makes it so cool? For once can we not pretend? Finding Peace Piece by piece I try to piece together the pieces to find my peace. Va-he-guru… I let those sounds vibrate through me, shaking off the pain with the roar of your name. I mean… Planting seeds to nurture our minds, but we need to find our teachers.

You made shaking numb hands become swords of steel. What do you mean fourteen? This was meant for our own good. Convincing us that this is what we want… We used to love our Muslim - Hindu - Sikh neighbour, treated them like our sister and brother. Because we have been living a lie since that very year. I am I am raising my voice so all the forgotten voices can be heard. We lost young souls as precious as pearls.

But after a week it was no longer trending.

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Our Facebook charity events had no one attending. But governments continued with their cruelty and numbness. Mixed up in a media misrepresentation machine. No one cared about those darker races.

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The Soul Contract They said you were suitable. Here is the newer edited version of the poem. Enjoy… I dream of his free-flowing beard, His magnificent mane, curled and twisted along his beautiful strong jaw. I want his heavy hands, his paws, to bare weight on mine. KING of the jungle. I want the sound of his thick steel kara clinging to make my hair rise.

His simran beads on his left hand to jingle. I want him to twist his mucha when he thinks. I want to be taken into his pride. I will be his family. I will accept his weaknesses, his war wounds, his scars, I will help make him stronger. I will see his soft SOUL hidden under that velvet skin. In Sanskrit he will be my Simha. Do not doubt me, do not have me mistaken.

I shall not be his lamb. And I didn't hesitate to tell them muthafuckas about themselves. I would tell them I saw them coming from Klan meetings and they'd look at me like I was crazy. But they liked me because I spoke my mind and I didn't give a fuck. At age 7, Reid's grandmother caught him singing a dirty version of a popular song. Shaking her head, she looked at him and said, "Boy, you is nastier than a blowfly! It was here that he was first noticed for his unusual talent. He was working a job stacking records in a jukebox in a restaurant and, as usual, making up dirty versions to the songs.

He gave me cards for two people to check out if I decided to go there. The name on one card was Henry Stone. The other was Dick Clark," he recalls. Reid traveled to Miami and chose Stone, and as they say in the entertainment business, the rest is history. There's an interesting paradox between Reid and Blowfly, one Reid has handled better than many of his peers: As Blowfly, he's an X-rated rapper who specializes in sexually explicit material and raunchy live shows.

As Clarence Reid, he's a staunch Bible-carrying Christian who doesn't drink, smoke or do any kind of drugs.

He's also a doting father to his four children, one of whom has Tarheel ties. She now plays for the Miami Sol. To Blowfly, maintaining the balance between the entertainment world and fatherhood and religion has been easy. I make an example of those muthafuckas every time they try to approach me with that bullshit. After nearly 40 years in the business, Blowfly has seen a lot of artists come and go. The recipe for longevity, he says, is keeping an open mind and living right. But Hank couldn't stop fucking the girls and partying long enough to sustain his career. I always say you don't have to be a genius to make a million dollars, but you do have to be a genius to keep it.

One aspect of hip hop that rubs Blowfly the wrong way is sampling--over the years, many artists have used his material without bothering to financially compensate him. Plus, talented people don't have to sample. A good but underrated musician, Blowfly enlists the best players he can find to record his albums, which is how he hooked up with Fishbone.