In Honor of Cliterati's Birthday-old writings!
I see the back of you,
Stiff as a sheet of ice,
A storms coming,
One where its so hot that even rain is annoying,
The smells waft by,
Of a carnival long gone,
A piece of a popped balloon,
Red streaks blowing away,
I think I like purple better.
______________________________
You push the air out of my lungs,
Like falling from the monkey bars does,
Yet I come back for more,
My hands slipping off the cool metal,
Reaching out for the next bar,
Hoping its not too far away,
Using my body to propel me,
Hoping faith will help me grab on,
And realizing my foolishness as I fall,
To the gravelly ground ,
Watching your feet dance on the rungs above me.
________________________________________
And last, but not least the piece I wrote to read at my first Cliterati!
I seem to always be holding myself back,
Never quite sure how to relax, what to say, who to be,
I've spent my entire life restraining myself to fit in,
Believing I was what people saw,
Holding myself in to fit other's boxes,
As if by letting go for once might make me lose myself.
I used to think labels would find me, validate me as a person,
As if by saying I'm Arab American, Palestinian, Lesbian, Bisexual, Queer,
would magically make me the very essence of that label,
Problem is I don't fit the part, Any part,
As if looking white and not even sure how to look gay,
Took away all claim to my identity, my very being.
Every day became a battlefield I tiptoed my way through,
I'd jump from side to side never quite the same person as before,
Who am I if I don't fit in?
Am I white because I look white?
Then how do I explain my lack of connection to whiteness,
My fear at the lack of color in a room,
How to explain that when I see a person of color I breathe just a little bit
easier and feel a whole lot more comfortable and safe.
Yet I know when they see me, They see white,
I am what they are afraid of,
I am a picture of the people who,
Enslaved them, dropped bombs on them,
Chased them down in cars after 9/11,
I am what I hate.
Then again, Do I look straight?
How does one look gay?
How does one claim a label when no one else can see it?
I'm tired,
Tired of acting in parts that aren't me,
As if in hope they will someday become me,
I only have to play myself,
Prove myself to myself.
And the truth is,
I am white, I am straight, I am Palestinian, I am gay, I am a woman, I am a gay man, I am queer,
And to hate one part means to hate it all,
And I can't do that anymore,
I am what I am,
Not how I look or what others perceive,
I am what I want to be!
Stiff as a sheet of ice,
A storms coming,
One where its so hot that even rain is annoying,
The smells waft by,
Of a carnival long gone,
A piece of a popped balloon,
Red streaks blowing away,
I think I like purple better.
______________________________
You push the air out of my lungs,
Like falling from the monkey bars does,
Yet I come back for more,
My hands slipping off the cool metal,
Reaching out for the next bar,
Hoping its not too far away,
Using my body to propel me,
Hoping faith will help me grab on,
And realizing my foolishness as I fall,
To the gravelly ground ,
Watching your feet dance on the rungs above me.
________________________________________
And last, but not least the piece I wrote to read at my first Cliterati!
I seem to always be holding myself back,
Never quite sure how to relax, what to say, who to be,
I've spent my entire life restraining myself to fit in,
Believing I was what people saw,
Holding myself in to fit other's boxes,
As if by letting go for once might make me lose myself.
I used to think labels would find me, validate me as a person,
As if by saying I'm Arab American, Palestinian, Lesbian, Bisexual, Queer,
would magically make me the very essence of that label,
Problem is I don't fit the part, Any part,
As if looking white and not even sure how to look gay,
Took away all claim to my identity, my very being.
Every day became a battlefield I tiptoed my way through,
I'd jump from side to side never quite the same person as before,
Who am I if I don't fit in?
Am I white because I look white?
Then how do I explain my lack of connection to whiteness,
My fear at the lack of color in a room,
How to explain that when I see a person of color I breathe just a little bit
easier and feel a whole lot more comfortable and safe.
Yet I know when they see me, They see white,
I am what they are afraid of,
I am a picture of the people who,
Enslaved them, dropped bombs on them,
Chased them down in cars after 9/11,
I am what I hate.
Then again, Do I look straight?
How does one look gay?
How does one claim a label when no one else can see it?
I'm tired,
Tired of acting in parts that aren't me,
As if in hope they will someday become me,
I only have to play myself,
Prove myself to myself.
And the truth is,
I am white, I am straight, I am Palestinian, I am gay, I am a woman, I am a gay man, I am queer,
And to hate one part means to hate it all,
And I can't do that anymore,
I am what I am,
Not how I look or what others perceive,
I am what I want to be!