My pen seems so distant from my paper
Yearning to share a story, to share a word
something that will free these emotions that lies within
they have cast-off my story as being hers
and hers as being mines
we are one, but we are not the same
this voice shall penetrate through their deadened hearts
shall move oceans and cause riveting tides
it shall scream my excitement, pain, love, anger, and more within these small spaces called lines
I will rage against every stereotype against me
I will eliminate those words that you associate with me and I will use use my red ball-point pen and scratch them out
Do it again until I make a hole on this paper
I will do it one more time to just make sure they are all gone
so that this place called my space will not be filled with your ignorance
I will gather up my crayons and make flowers
because I like flowers
I will gather together my brown crayon and say “i am african-american” and draw next to it an American flag
This is my identity.
It may never fit your prototype of a Muslim, but I am.
I will use my black permanent marker and write my testimony of faith, so that you can never erase it
therefore it will always be there
Towards the end of this poem I will cry
and I will not feel guilty about it
Nevermind, you may think I am downtrodden and oppressed.
So, I will cry because I can.
Because I am human.
Because I have just changed history
You will no longer write me
You will no longer use words to describe me
I am my own self
I am Muslim
I am American
I am me.