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Poems On / About IDENTITY  11/27/2014 4:59:11 PM
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Barriers and barricades!

Is it possible?
We all have forgotten our all identity,
The only identity stands is the human,
There is no land, no border,
No religious distance, no races,
What if we all were only man?

Is it possible?
We need no passport or visa,
We are traveling all around the world,
No immigration, no customs,
No cultural variation or discrimination,
What if we all were only man?

May be one day it will,
We would be able to stand as one,
We would dissolves all barriers,
But the barricades in the walk of life,
That create complexities among us,
How can we cross that barricade?
How can we change these hearts,
Those have known the variations,
Have been self centered inside us,
How can we overcome these barricades?
What if we all were only man?
kafil uddin raihan.

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Lost identity

I can't live free, one way or otherwise,
I'm tied permanently by my legs, hands, heart and mind,
The psychology of slavery,
I do everything willingly, happily in form of lost identity,
I revel in the form of lost identity,
I believe I enjoy every moment of my life in the mosquito net,

My culture has become a tag of ridicule,
Despicable and a shame to wear,
I believe I'm cultureless and free,
Yet I'm caught in the foreign spider web,
I'm a soccer player in a match,
Yet I play with no one,
I kick the ball to either side, annoying and pleasing everyone,
I believe I enjoy every moment of the game,
Yet my manoeuvre is determined by the circumference of the cage,
So widely decorated, I can't bear to detach my attention from it,
I'm forever captivated by it, day in - day out,
I'm a spectre of that image,
I dance to it all the time,
Nobody laughs at me, unless I try to be African,

I'm in the middle of a raging river, the Limpopo River,
Yet I can't swim, but I don't care,
What I care about is happiness,
As long as I'm happy, I will keep on drifting away,
Drifting away from me and my pride,
In pursuit of a false identity,
In pursuit of an identity not of my kind,
I've become selfish to myself,

I have painted my children with my twisted tongue,
I want them to speak like me, like everybody else,
But not like the people of my indigenous kind,
They too now speak in tongues,
They are a distance far from me,
Their children too, will be a distance far from them,
We will be a chain running into oblivion,

The culture painters are deceitful,
They sell everything on contract,
Whatever one bought it is his or hers but can't use it at will,
One is caught in a spider web of conditional living,
Tied to the chain forever but free to elongate it,
To whatever distance, as long as the move is forward,
It is everything else but, transformation of dark Africa! !
Niki Nicholas Nkuna

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The Importance Of Your Purpose

Too energy absorbing it is,
To promote with a devoting...
Of one's cultural identity,
To be kept connected without dollars and cents.
Since many today would rather have their efforts,
Funded for the purpose to document...
What it is they feel they represent.
And if the money isn't there...
Few are left to care if their culture is spared.
Or if the existence of it becomes extinct.
Especially in atmospheres where pride and identity,
Is meaningless unless it impresses with bling.

'We need more of 'us' to be paid to represent ourselves.'

~And if the funding isn't there? ~

'Why should we care who it is we are? '

~So your pride, identity and kept identity,
Depends upon who it is you can leave impressed? ~

'Of course.'

~Then you will never know the importance of your purpose.
Or have your thoughts represent who you are.~

You give me some money...
And I'll show you where my thoughts are.'
And it will not be spent on anything philosophical.
It's about the bling.
Give me the bucks and to me that's everything.'
Lawrence S. Pertillar

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Mistaken Identity

The man ran
But they ran faster
They ran after him
More like a mob
Panting and running
Trying to avoid
The flying missles
And the hands
Being streched to grab him
He cannot afford to stop
To stop to catch his breath
He ran away
He ran even faster

The man bleeds, bleeding from
His head running down
And entering is face
The broken bottle
Thrown by one of
His pursuers got him
Squarely on his head
Splitting open his skull
Blood oozing out
If he should stop
And they get him
That would be the
End of him

Blood mix with sweat
Flowed freely from
His head down to his legs
Where ever he steps
He made a mark on the floor
A mark of blood
Bloody men on his heels
He ran faster and faster
Pleading with his eyes
His mouth opened
To suck in some air

His heart pounding
And beating as fast
As possible to accomodate
The running
He is getting weak
But he must not stop
Otherwise he would
Not live to share
The experience
Though it is a case
Of mistaken identity

How could he stop
And explain the situation
It is just too late
He ran faster, faster
He has to get away
Out of the reach of this
Murderous and angry mob
How did he get'
Himself cornered like this
Even unto death

He ran with all his might
He jumped,
He jumped across
Bearly missing the gutter
Colliding against the passing vehicle
Almost knocked down
By another oncoming one
A deadly blow landed
On his left eye
It was so sudden

He went temporarily
Blind and demobilised
He saw sparks, sparks of light
But remembered if he
Wants to live
To tell the story
He cannot stop
He ran on blindly
Vehicles Screeching to
Panic stop
He ran for his life

Yet, it is a case
Of mistaken identity
Suddenly, he saw
Policemen coming towards him
And he ran faster
Only for the mob
To slow down a little
No longer as ferocious
As before

It is only a case
Of mistaken identity
At last,
The police grabbed him
And the pursuing mob
Slow down and
Began to disperse
One after the other
They led him away
He would have been

Alas, it was only
A case of mistaken identity.
David Oladipupo Olorunshola

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Poems On / About IDENTITY