Being Native American
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A girl, raised to have the mindset of creative liberty,
bred with the blood of Indians and the spirit of Mother
left to wonder the world;
The dissuassion of engagement from myth is not a symptom of modern society, but of a western society.
The smell of burning wood floats in the air
It's a nice smell
A smell that I grow to miss
My moccassins settle on the floor
Where those who came before me have settled
My regalia acts a hug
The smell of burning wood floats in the air
It's a nice smell
A smell that I grow to miss
My moccassins settle on the floor
Where those who came before me have settled
My regalia acts a hug
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
I become the words on the page
The words that cling on to my chapped lips are now seen
They are now heard through
I Watched the moon around the house
Yet I knew its eyes couldn't scrutinize
so Why Watch?
I watched the sun around the room
glide freely as the clouds that surfaced
Before my face
My mother was a spiderBirthing six differentniggers onto a plantation,Farmed and raised by A home owner of two.
Roaming In the hallways not quite belonging
Squeezing Into a space, where there was never place
I am not alone In this daily struggle
Turn over your hands, let me read the lines.
I'll feel the aches in those curves, read the letters between the creases in your skin.
The soles beneath your shoes smell of sun-baked earth.
Shi ei Dineh.
I am Navajo.
As I venture out,
all I see are stares.
They look down on me.
They don't know there are more like me.
They don't know I am capable of anything.
