Yellow the undertone of my skin BLACK not what I appear. But whatever behaviour this implicates I’m sure I can replicate, if that means I win?
If I can sit around with you, roll a blunt, fly high till I touch the roof top of my skull.
Ooh, was that too much? Is that not it? If I can shake my non existent behind, gyrating on any fine thing then will I win?
Perhaps not, I’m missing one little thing; If I can slap and punch my sister over a mister, even though we’re both part of his collection of toys.
My ability to enunciate words, resulting in shame, and judgement from my own. But to continue is my choice.
Although my ancestor’s too, plucked everyday like the bird did Prometheus, with the yellow sun burning their backs like lasers. Inside. You were inside, not there, not seen, they had children with you not me.
Yes that may be true, but that had its disadvantages too. Raped, continuous sexual abuse. Resulting in our existence, having that hang over our heads, knowing our father never asked for forgiveness.
Where do we fit in, everyday we’re attacked from our ancestral background.
Now more than ever, you need me not because I’m clever, not because I think I’m better, but because all black lives matter. Right? When did the colour of my skin, become a way to define personality? Although we share the same pain, we are not all the same. And that’s OK.
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