PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I smh over this delayed culture shock,
about seven years too late to turn back the hands of time and turn me from a productive Jamaican child to a productive Jamaican woman.
I am haunted by the shreds of my culture.
Sweet like sour sop, sour like the passion fruit hailing from the gully behind my house.
A little girl, that was me, stiffled by the winter time!
My lungs welcoming bronchitis,
I was too childish to understand the depth of my prayers.
Digging through the newest reggae song I could hear online to find some piece of my accent -- The one that dissaperas when I give the white people what I think they want to hear.

I have never stopped longing for, like Jah Cure.
I've never stopped reminiscing and craddling every memory that Kingston 6, Jamaica, West Indies brought to me.
Sketching a plot to become unAmericanized:
No Z's leave the S's and color is spelt C-O-L-O-U-R damn it!

I long for not missing Brooklyn, because I crave Jamaica, and Brooklyn only makes me miss Jamaica more.
Xymaca ~ Land of Wood and Water; the tourists don't worship your beauty as much as they should.
My heart overflows with gratitude for being born in you, as I struggle to become accustomed to the New York Landscape and winter mornings when God clearly understands why A suck teeth comes from my mouth, and I feel bad for some of these people because they were never able to feel your warmth.

I am drowning from lack of my culture, barely hanging on.
Missing out on so much , because of my ambitions and fear of failing get in the way of going home.
Likkle skinny me -- will never be, as I eat for the comfort that New York won't permit me.
It hurts!!! Everytime someone says your name, it hurts!!!
And at times I thought my biggest heartache was that of my first love, but now I see these pains are one in the same.
And I am digging and grasping holding tightly to the memories because they are all I have.
Scared to completely conform because I'm not supposed to. I need to rebel from the reigns of the land of opportunity to coffee hills which make love to my imagination, to salt water which could heal my disfigurations!
This place is magical!
And no one quite understands the emptiness or anxiety I feel for feeling I will become American, yes I love this country for its opportunity but I am waiting for America to love me.