-Poetry-

By Anonymous

The a collection of poems whose author wishes to remain unknown

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Religion
Why force on me.
Your lies about humanity.
I'm so sick.
So very sick.
Of your corrupt conception as what to believe.
Don't force.
Don't force your lies on me.
You fascist.

Angel.
Here the fallen angel weeps.
As his wings begin to bleed.
He whispers; I was so high above you that I fell.
And with that death took over.
His soul is now bought.

Untitled.
Sometimes I think I would be happy.
If I took my paper bag full with poisoned flowers.
And accepted the risks.
Crawled in to the humble embrace of my imperfect world.
Remembered when I was bruised from my lack of consciousness.
I used to sit in the sunshine.
In the low hanging garden on the grass.
Sitting and weaving my baskets out of weeping willows.
So sure they wept in compliance with me.
Or at least I hoped.

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When I was born, I was black.
When I grow up, I'm black.
When I'm ill, I'm black.
When I go out in the sun, I'm black.
When I'm cold, I'm black.
When I die, I'm black.
But you -
When you're born, you're pink.
When you grow up, you're white.
When you're ill, you're green.
When you go out in the sun, you go red.
When you're cold, you go blue.
When you die, you're purple.
And you have the nerve to call me coloured.

- Malcom X

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