Case Study A, 2006 - 2026 :
oh how beautiful it is to experience joy that was born out of the ashes, joy and love that has been through the worst of the worst, joy and love and positivity that was forged out of hellfires on earth.
They want us to be happy. They don't want to see us happy and content. They want to see us flawed. They don't want to see us flawed and maintaining a smile on our face.
Systematically, our joy is seen as too loud, too fake, too obnoxious. And when it's quiet, when it appreciates the little things in life, when it appreciates life itself, it irks them. It suddenly becomes boring, not fit for public distribution, can't be sent to radio, it's got too much soul.
They need us to be sad, and entertain them with our dejections. Their entertainment can never be born out of our happiness because that makes them realise we are catching up. They want to monetize our pain for their gain. We should be flawless beings with our human flaws held to our throats, our deepest secrets to be told and sold to the highest bidder on primetime TV shows.
Keeping our dignity is not rewarded as it is with those of their kind. If we don't have our suffering to sell, or our souls, the door is closed in our faces. As the folks say, they want our rhythm but not our blues, but actually, they do want both.
They don't want our blues for themselves. They want control over both, our rhythms and our blues. They want to pitifully smile at our uncivilised heartbreaks, our savage fight against systemic roadblocks that their fathers set in system against ours, with a cup of coffee in their hand for which we carry the weight of the child that died to harvest it, the weight of our farmers who gave up food for cash crops, of our economies which pay back debts in beans and nuggets. They don't wish to experience it, god forbid. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy.
They don't want to hear our prowess and progress. Or maybe, they do. But only under the condition that we also fall and falter in front of their own eyes.
Step By Step. Blink of a Second. All That You're Looking For. I've Got You. Still. It's Love. Heartbeat. Keep Going On. Old Wounds, The World, Father, Leila... Everything Leads To You.
For just an hour out of 24, the sun shines on a clear, beautiful, deep blue lake, a flower blooms in the snow, and the angel spreads her wings in the palm of my hand and tells me it's going to be okay. This angel looks just like me, long black curly hair, deep brown skin, almond eyes, and she warms hearts with her smile. Some of her feathers are soaked in blood and dragged through the mud, some are decorated with placards and platinum records. Some feathers are made of stainless steel, for she might have lost those feathers while falling to the ground, having lost it all at once, but she had never lost her will to fly, so she gave herself stronger ones. The cracks in her armour are laced and decorated with gold. Her fairy dust is her voice. I raise my hands towards the sky, and into the light she shall fly and take me with her wherever she goes.
Oh, how beautiful to experience our pure, unadultered, wise words of melanated, underrepresented, overlooked, joy. Hallelujah, joy, I believe, Hallelujah, I shall find.
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Fallbeispiel B : Schlagzeile, 2007
Herr Richter, gestatten Sie mir bitte einen Einspruch
"Es ist Ihnen gestattet, aber halten Sie es kurz."
Vielen Dank. Ich bitte um eine Aufnahme ins Beweisarchiv:
FALLBEISPIEL B; Schlagzeile 2007.
Wer kennt sie nicht, die Schlampe der Nation?
In der Bravo hat man sie gewählt, übers Telefon
Jung, hübsch, blond, steil steigende Musikkarriere
Den Erfolg kann man ihr nicht nehmen, also nimmt man ihr die Ehre
Artikel 1 Grundgesetz gilt ab jetzt für sie nicht mehr
Was auch immer sie macht, sie sagen "sie gibt sich zu viel her"
Wenn sie vor ihren Augen ist, ohrenbetäubendes Gekreische
Doch hinter ihrem Rücken gehen Lügen auf die lange Reise
Sie nimmt jedes Wort wahr und weiß, etwas ist nicht richtig
Sagt sich das Image sei wichtig, auch wenn man Fan oder nicht ist
Man kann nie allen gerecht werden, sie glaubt aber noch daran
Sie braucht jemanden, sie braucht Halt, doch niemand hält ihre Hand
Jeder Mann, den sie liebt, sieht in ihr nur die Geldscheine
Heute Abend, Wetten Dass, er greift ihr nur zwischen die Beine,
Lacht sie aus, sie lächelt mit, zu viel passiert zur gleichen Zeit
Langsam zerbröckelt ihr Glauben an ihre eigene Menschlichkeit
Langsam zerbröselt das, was sie noch am Boden gehalten hat
Denn sie fühlt, sie weiß, sie ist psychisch am Boden angelangt
Denn sie sieht, wie ihr Name dem Erdboden gleichgemacht wird
Sie weiß nicht, dass der Boden der Dinge der reine Frauenhass ist
Sie weiß nicht, dass es das System ist, welches sie im Visier hat
Das was sie im Visier hat, in der Form nie existiert hat
Das ihr Kindheitstraum in der Form nur Vermarktungsversprechen ist
Gegenüber dem Plattenboss der in einem New Yorker Hochhaus sitzt
Sie glaubt also es ist ihre Schuld, dass sie ne Hexe ist,
Und dass diese Hexenjagd auf sie total berechtigt ist,
Dass all dies hier ihr Fehler, ihr Versagen, ihr Verbrechen, ist,
Und dass ihre nächste Tourstation der Scheiterhaufen ist,
Denn in der Bravo stand ja da, schwarz auf weiß, ungeschont
Ihr Geburtsname, Doppelpunkt: SCHLAMPE DER NATION
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(translation into english here :
Who doesn't know her, the nation's whore?
She was voted as that in the "Bravo", over the telephone
Young, pretty, blonde, exploding music career
They can't take away her success, so they take away her honour
the first article of the Grundgesetz doesn't apply to her anymore
Whatever she does, they say "she's giving herself away too much"
When she is in front of their eyes, deafening screams
But behind her back, lies are taking a long journey
She hears every word and knows, something isn't right
Tells herself, image is important, regardless of if someone is a fan or not
You can't please everybody,but she still believes in it
She needs someone, she needs stability, but no one holds her hand
Every man whom she loves, only sees the dollar bills in her
Today evening, Wetten Dass, he just grabs her between the legs,
Makes fun of her, she smiles along, all too much at the same time
Slowly, her belief in her own humanity crumbles down
Slowly, everything crumbles that kept her on the ground
Because she feels, she knows, she's mentally reached the ground
Because she sees, how her name is razed to the ground
She doesn't know that the ground reality is the pure hatred of women
She doesn't know that it's the system which has her in it's target
And that what she's targetting never existed in that form
That her childhood dream in that form is just a marketing promise
In front of the record label boss who sits in a New York skyscraper
So she believes it's her fault, that she's a witch
And that this witch hunt against her is totally legitimate
That all of this here is her mistake, her failure, her crime
And that her next tour stop is the witches' burning pyre
Because it was written in the Bravo, black on white, barring no holds,
Her birth name, colon: NATIONS'S WHORE
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(more poems are to come! I just wanted to repost some stuff I had on napo and tumblr)
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