White people destroyed 3/4s of the world for spices and have the nerve not to season their food.
this post wont die
I was thinking about this post in class today i’m really glad it’s fucking back
- nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)
This heartbreaking story is about as elephant Raju from India that had an incredibly rough life. After being poached from his mother he was thrown from one owner to another, until he was left living in terrible conditions with no shelter at night, being used as a beggars prop all day long. Raju survived only from passing tourists and sometimes had to eat plastic and paper while being chained 24 hours a day. A wildlife organisation SOS-UK could not stand the injustice and decided to save him in a daring midnight rescue operation.
The elephant, realizing he was being saved, started to cry: “It was incredibly emotional. We knew in our hearts he realised he was being freed” – claims Pooja Binepal, one of the rescuers in an interview with Presspeople. “Tears began to roll down Raju’s face. Some no doubt were due to the pain but he also seemed to sense that change was coming. He felt hope for the first time” – says another rescuer Kartick.
When I first saw this I cried for about an hour
our tragedy begins humid.
in a humid classroom.
with a humid text book. breaking into us.
stealing us from ourselves.
one poem. at a time.
it begins with shakespeare.
the hot wash.
the cool acid. of
dead white men and women. people.
each one a storm.
crashing. into our young houses.
making us islands. easy isolations.
until we are so beleaguered and
with a definition of poetry that is white skin and
that we tuck our scalding. our soreness.
behind ourselves and
as trauma. as violence. as erasure.
another place we do not exist.
another form of exile
where we should praise. honor. our own starvation.
the little bits of langston. phyllis wheatley.
angelou during black history month. are the crumbs. are the minor boats.
that give us slight rest.
to be waterdrugged into rejecting the nuances of
my own bursting
and to have
to take my name out of my name.
out of where my native poetry lives. in me.
replace it with keats. browning. dickson. wolf. joyce. wilde. wolfe. plath. bronte. hemingway. hughes. byron. frost. cummings. kipling. poe. austen. whitman. blake. longfellow. wordsworth. duffy. twain. emerson. yeats. tennyson. auden. thoreau. chaucer. thomas. raliegh. marlowe. burns. shelley. carroll. elliot…
(what is the necessity of a black child being this high off of whiteness.)
and so. we are here. brown babies. worshipping. feeding. the glutton that is white literature. even after it dies.
(years later. the conclusion:
shakespeare is relative.
white literature is relative.
that we are force fed the meat of
that our bodies will not recognize. as inherent nutrition.
is not relative.
the hot wash, nayyirah waheed
from ‘nejma’(via nayyirahwaheed)
- Midnight thoughts (sometimes I’m a mess)
- jenn satsune (via ohsatsune)
I don’t know how our mothers do it, even with their souls shattered they still find it within them to cook, clean and feed us. May Allah bless them and grant them the highest of heavens.
TUPAC SHAKUR AND JADA PINKETT SMITH.
he loved her soo much.
This is my favorite photo set ever.
This is worth fuckin up my b&w for
Dascha Polanco at the Tracy Reese Fashion Show during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Spring 2015