I was never proud to be Black.
Maybe my ebony means nothing to me.
Like being in this skin is like being stuck in a nightmare.
Fear gunshot coming at me.
Not being as pretty as I wish I could be.
Being called a royalty?
But I never know because we never talk about black history as often as we talk about the European cross seas and great English writers writing stories.
While my brothers and sister were shipped away to what they thought was hell.
Well, let me tell you something that's isn't anything.
Or maybe that is just everything. because I wake up feeling like a slave to my own body.
I must change it for a society where I'm not the majority.
I'm minority.
I am a minority.
The lower class.
The topic of conversation.
But not the subject of an action.
I sit and watch people my age die for nothing.
Killed by hate shot by a gun.
A punch.
A word.
An action that shouldn't be made
That's why.
when I have my children
I will wish their skin is caramel
Instead of dark chocolate.
Because apparently My skin is bitter.
Or maybe we're sweet.
But they only chose to take the first bite and spit it out.
And not allow all the flavors to cover your tongue.
Our history to fill you.
And maybe for once
I will be proud to be
Black.
YOU ARE READING
His poems, Their poems, My poems, Our poems
PoetryI write so he knows. I write so they know. I write so I know. I writes so we understand. Original poems and essays by Leasia Rayona "Leray" Posey.
