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My stories are weary
From the long journey
Made from ancestral times
Standing tall, telling all
Of my people
Who we are
And what we’ve become
Withstood humiliation
Through the years
The deaf ears
Stripped of original dress
Decorated in drag
Lost and researched
Brought back bits
Of broken translations
Story poetry
Spinning clues
Syllabled food
For the hungry soul
Constantly craving
“who am I”
Lends reason to why
We watch endless hours
Of television stories
Bend our ears to radio waves
Violently crack the spines
Of forgiving books
And pay with attention
To readers
Reciting in character voice
Their history
All relative, realistically
Intertwining our lives
Relating to strangers…
…on the screen
on the page
on the stage
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Hundreds of thousands
Of billions of stories
Layered one on top
Untold histories
Beneath our feet
Lie resting
Escaping escavating
This is my story
As tired and watered down
As it is
As torn and manipulated
As it has become
A cocktail of a story
Mixed and shaken
With a twist of humour
To help it go down
I constantly walk
in this sad truth
Alone, as in my departure
Absent of all possessions
But skin
which too is tired
Of representing
Something not understood
Proud, pride
Without innocence
Clinging to the colours
Of my people
Hoping their knowing
Will rub off
Bringing my kindling stories
To their rich fires
Casting new light
Revealing wall writings
Telling in pictures
Who we were =Who I am
Today
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