I can’t escape from how I look,
I didn’t choose this brown skin…
the brown skin chose me.
Pondering thoughts of what black’s supposed to be,
How to be… controlling and stealing the beat of my rhythm and the flow of my ancestors
The power from my voice,
The energy of my spirit
Why was I the chosen one?
Why did it choose us?
If mother nature created water to free the soil and form trees, while guiding the stars, creating women and men… why are we, as women belittled – pushed down below ground, six feet under as if we were less than dirt yet alone men?
-shit gets more respect than the cocreator… the CEO, the ones that birthed society
Don’t act like a girl they say, grow some…
Why do I have to prove my value by constantly trying to fight a system of boxes and the weight of stereotypes?
Stereotypes that birthed crabs in a bucket who think that they can’t do better but live in a monolithic and endless prison of what’s expected…
Self hate… a jail cell that dictates our worth based on appearance, speech and social class over internal value…
internal value… above the caliber of gold, diamonds, and money
The only commodity that can compare to stars, lightning, and thunder is the will…
The will to rise above…
Above the trauma from the prickly shackles of weight and terror that never belonged
Black and brown may seem to be obvious colours – subconsciously grouped up… pushed into the bucket…
a box that wasn’t even a first, second, third, fourth to infinity and beyond choice
No brown is the same, some pigments have gold, some red and some cold
All black is a mystery
a wonderous and ethereal one might I add
i’m not here to aspire to sit on the seat at the table with just men… white or black
I’ll build my own table from scratch, providing chairs for everyone to have a seat
Cookies, Coffee & Poetry 