Dboy/Dgirl buisness

More poetry from DBOY and Dess. :)

Before you read this, I want you to know that I created some verses for dramatic effect. Please do not be too alarmed, 98% of this speaks from true insecurities, yet, with a humble heart, I gladly accept who I am.

We both speak about different conflicts... :)



Deep into my mind I wrestle, like Jacob and God, all night - I fight - I am she and it's She versus Her. She can speak volumes that reaches God's front porch, mocked and scorned by a spectator that with his gavel has already adjourned on the preconceived notion that She is... "different".

People see me and think SHE. She is different. She, talks “white”…  sounds funny and smells weird, and is sometimes odd and particular with what she says. She, is “tainted”… kissed and smothered by the sun’s rays, scorched lands of the Sahara desert would seem fitting for her origin. She, is lacking - in athletic talents that have been strongly exemplified through all 3 of her brothers, the apple does not fall too far from the tree, yet She was thrown to the waste side. She is of an unknown aesthetic make up, uncommonly identified by naive minds who are without knowledge of her kind. Are you mixed, with black? They commonly ask. She thanks them for the compliment, but no, she is not Black, Puerto Rican, Indian, Mexican, Pnay or any of the above.  She is Samoan - or is she not?

She is cut and bleeds red and white stripes, navy blue and white stars - and only the tail feathers of a bald eagle. Though she has the blood of her ancestors that reigned the Navigation Islands she is bred AMERICAN SAMOAN and is plagued with the disease of being, plastic - and because of this, she fights. She did not choose to be conceived in the mainland, yet she is grateful for parents that sought the American Dream . This double edged sword of raising children in the mainland results in a child with better opportunity, yet lacking so much in enrichment in their true culture - or was it just She? She was taught English first, a blessing and a curse. She thinks back to the lack of ability her father had to communicate in the military when he joined 30 years ago. Straight from the rock, he read lips and followed the leader with commands - dare he have his children follow the same suit when their time comes? Hell no he replied, and thus he kept She from it. "No Samoan spoken in this home" he claimed, and the rule reigned over all 4 of his offspring. She's thankful for his protection and guidance, but still carries the burden alongside with her father, knowing that She is still, without. 

She doesn’t fully understand the fa’alavelave. Perplexed in the mind, she questions the exchange of monetary gifts she helped present. She cannot sulu an i’e. Fe’aus await her hands for service yet they are too busy trying to keep her lavalava from falling.  She cannot read the Tusi Paia without a snicker or snare and I'm not talking candy and drums. Trembling lips fail to pronounce the long "A" on tam'a - she turned Father into a boy - and she is pierced with the glare of an elder woman that questions, "You don't know Samoan?". The language of her ancestors. She hangs her head low and she replies with a faint "no".

She vs HER.

She wishes she were Her, the Teine Samoa who was raised with the birthright of her sisters bred from the fresh soils of an island paradise. Her who is able to carry the si'i and bow at the right time and angle to present a love offering to God's chosen messenger. Her who can grace the stage with an awe-struck presence of purity and beauty to represent her aiga with the headpiece of a princess and the title, Taupou. Her who can communicate with without tugging on her mother's i'e for a translation. She struggles to be her.

I am She, and She is me, but I so long to be Her.

I've wished on every star in the sky to be pleasantly presented in the eyes of my people, yet my lack of confidence and eagerness to portray only finds me disappointed and flustered with the outcome. I'm not without knowledge of my kind, I'm just born into the new age generation of being American Samoan. I am not as strong physically as the teines and tamas that labor in the simplicity of life of the cultivated fields in Samoa. Yet I am strong mentally like those that refused to labor at the commands of the Germans during the colonization of Samoa. I am not talented with the athleticism to carry a winning team to the 'ship of a volleyball match or a football game. Yet, I have sophisticated my talent to write that can carry minds far beyond the courts of our Maker.
The final round in this battle with She and Her is tapped out by Me. Overwhelmed with frustration, wisdom overcomes. I realize that, as She fights to be Her, She bruises the essence of not Her or She... no one else, but Me.


DBOYYYYY... show 'em what you workin' with!
(I am a prisioner on the inside, as well as the outside) I can paint a piccasso of the courage it must take one to live the life they want to live; you see me, that is not quite what I did. Instead of facing ridicule and humiliation from those held immensley close to my heart, I live the life more suitable on the outside. But inside I'm in prision doin life for not snitchin, on myself. Surely my cell gets conjested causing little signs of truth to seep out of open crevices'. Shawshank redemption is near but the consequences of escaping I am not able to inflict upon my wounded soul. Wounded & Conflicted by culture, religion, tradition, and expectations, my mind and my heart duel for righteousness. Despite exhaustion, Insomnia forces me to play out the screenplay of my imagination, the very script I long to live. I become engulfed with the protagonist, bringing the character to life. Critics are spellbound by my performance referring to it as a delightful tour-de-force. However, the only 1 critiquing me, is me. No 1 has inspired me with true friendship to allow so close, even those few who have heard the truth uttered from my speech. Fatigue of a facade leaves me in despair. Enabling the prisioner to become intoxicated with power over me. Consider this his playtime on the field. Rebellious toward me for my actions, he creates havoc within my conscience indulging in his vices creating emotional bliss for him to weaken my decision. Fucked up way to live, I'm sure. But to loose those who love me would be unbearable. So do I live the life I want? Or do I live the life I know? I know, I know, its my life, I should live it and be comfortable in my skin. The walls I built to keep my prisioner inside are roaring. The echo increases with every thrust. You can't keep the innoncent caged up forever. The inmate chained to my soul can no longer remain destitude. Slowly and securley I feed his thirst. But what will come of it? Truth? I and I can't handle it. But like the sun, the truth always rises, and my prisioners one wish is to live where the sun always shines.