|Best Poems About / On IDENTITY
What 'Fit' Would I Want
I've had one for so long.
All my life,
I have lived to perfect it.
I don't get upset with those with none.
Those who prefer to turn away and run...
I know who I am without question.
Acceptance I don't seek.
Not from those
Who believe my identity
Might leave others afraid to speak.
Those familiar with others,
Who shuffle along with stances weak.
I have no problem,
Being me and that might offend.
'Too bad! '
'Get over it! '
Nothing else or more is there...
I care to share with them!
What 'fit' would I want,
If that which I enjoy...
Provides me comfort?
Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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Too Much Freedom
If we were to stay anonymous
And our need for identity be forgotten
Then life would have too much freedom
And end in its own destruction
For anonymity leads to
Of the most extreme
For their freedom fears not
The eternal cell of scrutiny
For their is no face to judge
And confine its uncontrollable
Laugh from the face of mankind
To be free from the curse of identity
Is to be cursed with freedom
For too much freedom
Leads to too much power
And a 'Common Power' at that.
For conflicting ideas
Of freedom and voice
Would choose to eliminate
Hindrances by its own hand
Without the ordered hand of identity
For a faceless man
Is a man without shame
And doth be invisible
For his own expression may threaten
The expression of others
A darkened shade
Placed across the world by total freedom
Will forever mask the anonymous
For their actions can not be traced
To the identity that had given breath to it.
Antoine La Najja
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The Irish Republican Army
Through clenched teeth will fight,
So all with Irish accents
Will hear 'Ireland's call' and unite.
The cowboys sings of the country
Mountains and farms and all that,
Though he is from the city
he'll wear his ten gallon hat.
The American is so proud
He was born on the Fourth of July,
He sings the 'star spangled banner'
With hand on heart as he cries.
The Australian larrikin is proud
Of their beaches, forests and sun,
That he is 'young and free'
With BBQ and beer soaked fun.
The Scotsman wears His kilt
And recites what Burns may have said,
About the braveheart spirit
That against the Englishmen bled.
Then there's the twelve year old boy
Thinks 'in what can I now be proud'? ,
He'll wear his football jersey
With the thousands in the stand with the crowd.
These all have something in common
It's the same thing that drives them all,
It's all about their identity
By this we all stand or fall.
The identity is the powerful force
That drives all of life's decisions,
To understand motivation
The identity is the heart's incision.
For this we'll defend to the death
For that is our fighting territory,
Because it's who we are
Where belief comes from, our identity.
Read more poems from Peter Hall >>>