Youth Arts Takeover – Poetry gallery

Looking around the Lodge, all I see is double standards. Contrasting opinions. All I see is double standards. Having to change who I am to please others. It’s right for some people to fight for their kingdom, but wrong for others to fight for their postcodes. Here you have guns and knives at the top of the stairs, but in my world, you have people using them against their peers. Look around the Lodge, all I see is double standards. Contrast in opinions, all I see is double standards. As a person with darker skin, being in a place so white your personality starts to dim. Walking around the Lodge, all I see is white faces wondering, will black people ever get their places, spaces? Race is only a word, yet has so many contrasts and opinions. More time is people being minions because they don’t have a good enough reason to tell us why. Looking around the Lodge, all we see is double standards. Contrasting opinions. All we see is double standards. People always say, when talking to white people, be polite because you don’t know what opportunities they have out of sight. But what about the many black people that hold greater? No, it seems we’re just going to forget about them. The Lodge is like a mystery. So many doors, but so little opportunities. There are pros and cons about this place. One good thing is it’s a big community. However, I cannot step foot out of character because I’ll be seen as a person of great impurity. But I know it’s not just me that notices. Looking around the Lodge, there, are many double standards.

My walls, built in the 17th century. Years of being developed. I was to be lived in eventually. First it was Princess Helena and her husband. Until they died and passed me on. Forgive me. I was given away. Yeah, it was all the same. Portraits of the head of the house. Tapestry designs catering the man’s spouse. The frames of my fireplaces removed and replaced. My rooms changed in order to appease my owners. Something I noticed were the faces never of those who helped maintain my cleanliness. Brought beautiful smells of glorious meals. But of those who did nothing but sit and lounge and bellow orders. Faces belonging to pretty, pale fathers developing into plain expressions owned by pretty, pale mothers. A change, a shift, a switch. New faces. Faces facing my past. Faces radiant features contrasting those faces in my portraits. I want these faces on my wall. I need them recorded. They’re expressions of curiosity. Some portraits and names cause animosity, opinions conflicting, my thoughts drifting. The different versions of the stories, the different ways the battles went down. The glory so gory. As if I am travelling in time. My walls are being rebuilt in the 21st century and it is about damn time.

Behind the stained glass windows and ancient halls lined in marble and gold, power found beauty in our solace, concealing the stories of dominion, abuse and control. Underneath chandeliers of gleam beaming light on an age old dream, we found that democracy was merely a fallacy to the aristocracies, you see. They said power means equity and everyone gets a say. But often times its strayed and justice goes astray. They said power protected the weak and prevented criminality. Yet too often the real criminals were those in our monarchy fostering inequality. They said power was fair. When nobility was handed in a silver platter to a favoured kin, doors unearned opened. The power is given and the corrupts saunter in. They say power helped us as they resided in their wealth with their coffers overflowing whilst they took wealth from our humble hands, taxes high, keeping their grandeur ever growing. Knowing this, I say power is deceitful, greedy and causes division in our society. But we know now times have changed and power is a double edged sword. In reality it can pave a path to make change real or leave justice ignored, rioting day in and day out for our voices to be heard. We wanted healings for the wounds torn and now acts passed and civil rights restored, laws abolished and renovated. Our storm was heard and sword so power, although we transformed your tale the journey is still long strides begun to reach the stars with dreams so strong through trials faced and battles fought along the way our hearts remain steadfast in hope as we face another day through bitter grace and through sacrifice a brighter world to see, the power now within our hands the future wild and free.

Power. The clock. The clock got power. The clock goes ding. You hear a dong. His time ageing against us. Increasing our wisdom from a bowl. A bowl fruity and colourful. Out of place. The acorns outside is spiky. It doesn’t break. The exterior is strong. Click. No matter how hard the acorn is pressed, it won’t rip. The acorn curves at the end of its points. It stays silent and won’t make any noise. Free the acorn. Make it go away. We will see another acorn again today.

In the shadow of the Lodge where whispers meet the air. A heart breaks softly in the cool twilight there, each brick and beam a testament to time. A silent witness to the love that was once mine. The windows tall were stories they could tell or whispers soft where shadows used to dwell. Your laughter once like sunlight through trees. Danced through the halls a ghostly summer breeze. Now silence reigns. The ivy twists and weaves around the memories that no heart reprieves. The arch is grand. They curve like questions. Why? Why love once by was left all alone to die? Each corridor a path I wander lost. Reflects the price of love and what it cost. In gardens green where flowers used to bloom. I traced the steps that led us to our doom. The fountain, tears like mine forever flare. The portraits on the wall. They gaze with knowing eyes. As if they feel sorrow for our goodbyes. Their silence speaks of heartbreak. Our stories left untold. Of dreams that turn to ashes. Of, our love that was once told.

Wanting more is a human instinct wanting something more is a human instinct things we cannot have holding us back thinking about the past when really we shouldn’t think about that a foolish young pride pulling in the tide to wasting life’s precious time wasting, wasting wasting time but breathe, just breathe it’s all about relief healing us from these responsibilities the pressure of holding back our individuality leaves us in the cycle of lacking personality. Live your life is what they say but what they really mean is live your life in the ordinary way. I could go on and on making a case I could even try to do it in a lyrical way but that won’t stop the ever changing waves of anxiety, stress and pain. I could lie and try to make these feelings go away but we both know that is the unfavouring way words are important. Words on paper are important. Words spoken are important. Why do we use our, words to hurt, devalue and evoke anger within one another? I’m not trying to make you think wanting more is a human instinct. Wanting something more is a human instinct. Or even you’ve been there, vanquished to life’s precious time. But now I have finished my rhyme. It’s time for you to decide.

I’m unbiased. I won’t feel sorry for these people. I can’t. Not for a country that never let me call it my own. No, I won’t feel bad for the suffering you bring to yourself. Not with its rolling hills and limitless beauty, not for its prosperity or dignity, not for its selfish people constantly screaming for more, the thirst never quenched, hands outstretched for more. I will not be saddened for its people with their ability to live without working, claiming benefit after benefit, then complaining about the foreign hands that worked so hard for you to reap their earning. No, perhaps I am biased. Biased towards my home of soil which did not bear me, yet welcomed me as its own. That saw the amount of love I had to give and so placed me in my mausi’s and mama ji’s arms. Showed me that cuts are fine as long as they come from good times and flying kites. That the night wasn’t to be feared from but relished in, that neighbours weren’t to hide from, but to play hide in seek with. Yes, I am biased because I’ve seen what a home is. Oh, of course I’m biased. How couldn’t I be when I felt what joy is and what childhood is. Yes, I’m biased. You would be too if you were ripped from the ground that nourished you and placed in a tundra that rejects all but its very own. Oh, you would be too. Of course you bloody would. If the version of you you held so dear perished in this country’s uninviting weather. When prying eyes and judgmental faces forced you to become familiar with guarding walls and a secretive nature. When lungs that were once filled with the dense, humid Indian air and are choked by the dry, smoke-filled fumes of you. When freshly squeezed cane juice on the way home from school turns into let’s fall into maccies how about a coffee or soft drink? But I didn’t come here for its aesthetics. I came for the opportunities, the chance for a better standard of living. So, yes, I’ll be boring. I’ll skip the infamous gang culture of the London streets or the so called thrill of fake ID’s and smoking. I’ll keep my bias to myself. Save it for someone who truly understands the hardships that come from calling home to two lands. For all the stories you won’t understand. Stories of my village, my cities or owning my own streets of sweet mangoes in July heat, crisp monsoons and chai when it hits mid afternoon no, I won’t share my home. Not until someone who understands just as well as me comes to, I, will remain unbiased. I will visit its monuments and hide my disdain for their lack of taste and spices. I’ll be a good visitor, kind and keen. Just until I meet someone with the same bias as me. Just until I meet someone with the same bias as me.