Week Five - #artstackpoets #artstack
oh my gosh 😍 thank you for the feature! I feel happy to be a part of the haul :D
The poetry Haul Challenge Week Five #artstackpoets #artstack
WORDS: capital, analyze, diversity, illusion, style, ammunition, trauma, recognition, rejection, self
Excavation
.
They called me an imposition,
a disruption in the carefully laid bricks
of a house I never chose to build.
You are a disgrace, they said,
as if dignity was theirs to grant,
as if worthiness was something rationed
by the hands that held the scales.
I was raised on illusions—
an ancestry tangled in whispers of obedience,
a style dictated by capital and hierarchy,
a world where patriarchy wrote the rules
in ink of blood and expectation.
The so-called Christianity they preached
held no room for the likes of me,
only ostracism wrapped in holy robes.
Rejection became my oldest companion.
It taught me to analyze the cost of inclusion,
to see the ammunition of their words
aimed at the marrow of my self.
Toxic shame slithered through my bones,
curled itself into my breath,
made a home where my voice should have been.
I carried the weight of white slavery’s echoes,
the exploitation of bodies and minds,
the burden of being unseen, unheard,
a product of capitalism’s indifferent machine.
But even within the fractures of history,
I searched for my reflection—
for the glimmer of something unbroken,
for the fire they could not extinguish.
So I turned to the shadows,
to the unlit corridors of my being,
and I did the work—
somatics, embodiment, the reclamation of flesh,
a liberation that was never gifted,
only forged in the depth of knowing.
There, beneath the weight of imposed names,
I found my own.
Recognition bloomed not from their lips,
but from my own awakening.
No longer a vessel for their shame,
no longer a mirror for their distortions—
I stood, unshaken.
Now I walk where diversity is not a plea
but a birthright,
where equity is not debated
but woven into the very fabric of belonging.
The ghosts of rejection no longer haunt me,
for I have named them, faced them,
and left them behind.
I am not what they told me to be.
I am what I have chosen to become.
oh my gosh 😍 thank you for the feature! I feel happy to be a part of the haul :D
The poetry Haul Challenge Week Five #artstackpoets #artstack
WORDS: capital, analyze, diversity, illusion, style, ammunition, trauma, recognition, rejection, self
Excavation
.
They called me an imposition,
a disruption in the carefully laid bricks
of a house I never chose to build.
You are a disgrace, they said,
as if dignity was theirs to grant,
as if worthiness was something rationed
by the hands that held the scales.
.
I was raised on illusions—
an ancestry tangled in whispers of obedience,
a style dictated by capital and hierarchy,
a world where patriarchy wrote the rules
in ink of blood and expectation.
The so-called Christianity they preached
held no room for the likes of me,
only ostracism wrapped in holy robes.
.
Rejection became my oldest companion.
It taught me to analyze the cost of inclusion,
to see the ammunition of their words
aimed at the marrow of my self.
Toxic shame slithered through my bones,
curled itself into my breath,
made a home where my voice should have been.
.
I carried the weight of white slavery’s echoes,
the exploitation of bodies and minds,
the burden of being unseen, unheard,
a product of capitalism’s indifferent machine.
But even within the fractures of history,
I searched for my reflection—
for the glimmer of something unbroken,
for the fire they could not extinguish.
.
So I turned to the shadows,
to the unlit corridors of my being,
and I did the work—
somatics, embodiment, the reclamation of flesh,
a liberation that was never gifted,
only forged in the depth of knowing.
.
There, beneath the weight of imposed names,
I found my own.
Recognition bloomed not from their lips,
but from my own awakening.
No longer a vessel for their shame,
no longer a mirror for their distortions—
.
I stood, unshaken.
Now I walk where diversity is not a plea
but a birthright,
where equity is not debated
but woven into the very fabric of belonging.
The ghosts of rejection no longer haunt me,
for I have named them, faced them,
and left them behind.
I am not what they told me to be.
I am what I have chosen to become.
.