They tell me when things are done,
But it’s up to me — I’ll take my time;
This control makes me want to run,
It’s up to me — and that’s no crime.
They decide where I must go,
But it’s up to me — I choose my way;
I’ll show them now, I’m set to grow,
It’s up to me — I will not sway.
They say they know it all so well,
But it’s up to me — I can decide;
If I am wrong, I’ll take the fall,
It’s up to me — at least I tried.
They all say I must obey,
But it’s up to me — I will not cave;
No one can make me stay,
It’s up to me — I’m not their slave.
Democracy is a hoax
And it was meant to be
As it is, a set of sad jokes
A cheerful old trickery
You are offered to favour one
From the faces chosen not by you
The work is already done
It’s preset, in case you won’t do
So it’s always a meritocracy
No demos reserved, but elite
Travestied as democracy
Telling you what you need
It’s a master and slave metonymy
As it was, but the good news is
The elite can’t stand mind autonomy
Much more than in previous years
That’s encouraging, cause it seems
The democracy plot gets worn out
Age reveals those repressive schemes
I could easily live without
I am not responsible
for the ache that blooms in others
when I place my name
above their expectations.
I have spent lifetimes
softening my voice,
shrinking my needs,
turning myself into a bridge
everyone could cross
while I remained unseen.
No more.
I refuse to apologize
for setting boundaries
where I once offered blood.
I refuse to carry guilt
that was never mine to hold.
My choosing myself
is not cruelty—
it is survival.
It is the long-delayed breath
of a woman who learned
that love without self-respect
is only a slow disappearance.
If my growth unsettles you,
let it.
If my no feels heavy,
place it down—
it was never meant to live in my hands.
I am allowed
to protect my peace,
to bloom without permission,
to walk away from rooms
where my silence was preferred
over my truth.
I choose myself
not to wound the world,
but to finally heal
the woman I abandoned
for far too long.
And that—
that is not selfishness.
That is coming home.
Trapped in a cage, viewed as animals
Plot twist - they were actually humans
Mocked, laughed at, seen as jesters -
Except it wasn’t entertainment -
Just pure cruelty,
To them it was a joke,
For us it was a humiliation ritual
No autonomy, no freedom, no rights
They were reserved only for the whites,
Our skin was the target of bullying,
Disrespected, as if being black meant we were the enemy
To them we were,
To them we were ‘inferior’ -
Just a means to an end for their enjoyment -
Like a comedy show, where we are the comedian,
Except we don’t have to speak to be funny,
They saw our skin as a hilarity -
Their idea of fun, was our suffering
If the conditions were to kill us,
They would see it as a bonus,
Rating our deaths as if it were a performance,
Conditions in the cages were poor,
But the treatment of us - even poorer,
To the oppressor it didn’t matter, as long as they were continuously entertained,
They were happy
You stay away
You set the date
To Saturday
To separate
Your sedative
That stains away
The suns you save
For rainy days - but hold up, wait
The sun keeps coming back
So easy we think we tame
Any meaning to be for us, where’s the shame?
Tell the truth.
You know we’re last
In the thoughts of grace
And if the past is coming soon,
How much did we choose to waste?
We know we’re not here to last
And we hope for someone to be.
Goodbye ideation, hello future.
Welcome to a world I once dreamt for there to be
If you ever have a chance to visit,
You’ll know you’ve made it
When memory can’t afford to remember your dreams.
It’s closer than you can believe.
Tell the truth
The cement is heavy when mixed with the loss of autonomy
It's dried around my boots; I welcome the body of water in front of me
Where my afflictions will feel each drop enter my lungs, and then I'll be free
Of the horrors, plagues, and false words, that are brought by living honestly— FML A.S.
The taste of freedom resides in choice
Autonomy of the body and autonomy of voice
It is to not be held hostage by threat of violence
It is to not be kidnapped by silence
It is to leave a home with quiet reassurance -
And to return without the company of bullets
It is to watch the news without dread
Of seeing another black person dead
It is to exist without stereotypes
Without having to defend our rights
To be able to breathe -
In a world where everything we do is heavily criticised
The taste of freedom, would taste so sweet
To not be harassed, while walking down the street
It would taste like a voice finally free
It would taste like the end of a centuries long journey
Where rest becomes mandatory
Where a happy ending chooses our story
The taste of freedom belongs to those erased in history
The taste of freedom belongs to those caged by slavery
The taste of freedom belongs to our collective ancestry
The taste of freedom belongs to those who look like me
Dr j marion sims
The 'so-called' father of gynecology
Built of the lie of ethics
Built from harvested black bodies
No permission, just 'science'
An excuse just to abuse black women -
Treated as 'experiments'
To him we were never human beings
Just a new toy to play with
No anaesthesia, just pain
His work wasn't revolutionary - it was just inhumane
Does he really deserve the honour of being labelled as a 'father' -
When behind closed doors he abused his 'children' who gave him that name
Pushed them out of the door
Then slammed it in their face
No thank you, no gratitude, no rewards
Just a lifetime of scars and trauma
Treated like a disgrace
Treated the enslaved as if they weren't apart of the human race
They didn't just invade our lands -
They colonised our bodies
Dissected us like a scientific study
No consent, no permission
Just a scalpel to cut our skin
Not even out of curiosity
Just to beat the 'competition'
He was known as the father of gynecology
But in reality -
Many of us will see him as the father of stolen autonomy
Treating our bodies like property
Studying us as if he were learning archaeology
Consent.
Break it and your punished
Usually,
That's how the story goes
That's the way it's supposed to go
The hippocratic oath.
Ethics. Principles. Confidentiality.
A promise. A vow. A pledge
Beyond race
Beyond gender
Beyond sexuality
An oath against inequality
That's how it is to be taken
That how its supposed to be took
But what if?
What if those blinded by power decide to change the rules?
To abuse their privilege with different tools
An excuse used - for the greater good?
Or naybe it's just a clinical way to own black people
Henrietta Lacks.
A woman. A human. A black person.
Hidden by a history of white erasure
The story of her life hidden in invisible ink
They didn't see her as anything other than a toy to play with
As a body to experiment with
It wasn't that she was silenced
It was more that she went unheard
Her voice was a ghost they ignored
At her most vulnerable they stole Something that was hers
Something she had the right to preserve
Her cells
Stolen from the place they called home
Observed
By doctors
Who only saw her as a catalyst for research
I did not understand what this word meant.
Why was it important?
I read the definition “self-directing freedom, especially moral independence”
A word that had meaning but carried no weight.
No never meant no. It meant a laugh, a sneer or worse was completely ignored.
Rights were something given to those who “deserved” them.
White men who somehow just by nature of pigmentation and gender could take what they wanted and do whatever harm they pleased.
Autonomy was for the chosen ones I thought.
A word made up for others.
My life completely changed not long ago. A hard fought struggle for something I didn’t think existed. I looked and saw it there with me. “self-directing freedom, especially moral independence”
I didn’t recognize it at first.
Then it came to me. Autonomy. :)
How will the robots remember us?
I’d like to think they’ll write poems in some
Style they develop for themselves, contrive
To move their electron-shifting hearts,
Inheriting our passions good and bad,
The joys and bitter miseries that they
In their birth and evolution never
Thought or ever dreamed we had.
If
"I" remains in
A story..in an
Autonomous role
Autonomy would seem
To retain a hold in
Imagination
As the story unfolds
In this way...
Meandering paths through the forest of voices
We all hunt the Fox, the fox of truth and of choices.
Let loose the hounds that lose the scent.
The foul fishy flash that keeps their nose bent.
Sell your head scratching questions to buy the cheap thrill
From the glossy silver lips of the letters on the hill.
The grand distraction of planned attraction
Gets a bland reaction 'till they force down the pill.
Count on the fact the books make us bored.
“Is it time for the signal from Greenwich?”
This just in...your minds been twined with a flaxen cord.
Keep your eyes on the chest, leave the treasure ignored.
The gluttonous fat man with round swirly eyes
Circles through the channels as he shoves in the fries.
Ignorance is only the fault of the one.
He never opened a page or his mind ‘fore he dies.
The man on the horse knows his time is soon spent.
The dogs and the fish have open resent.
Cunning and silence keeps the fox so majestic.
The pray of the fish is to keep doG domestic.
no cell phone service
in most of the universe
may make you nervous
original sin
where building of guilt begins
doubts start to creep in
autonomy should
not require lobotomy
only common sense
factoring our roles
finding poverty of soul
digs very deep holes
claim open season
for attacks upon reason
let's untruth sneak in
based on pure meanness
or simple inconvenience
words come between us
a haiku a day
may chase the doldrums away
no bills will they pay
They come into my room every night.
And make sure I’m asleep.
But also alive.
I'm no longer convinced that they have my best interests in mind.
I had finally woken up.
I try calling my family.
The phones are dead once again.
And everyone starts panicking for a moment.
I try calling to my family.
As if they can hear.
They start taking me away again.
Into another room.
That is like all the others.
They steal my ambition.
Which they take as frustration.
Take me back, mom.
Before I lose my memory of you.
And you lose your faith in me.
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