The quaint black man is here again,
He twirls, bend to the lyric he made up.
A voice so shrill, his lyric so blithe,
And his existence loathed by the most dulcet birds of this town.
The quaint black man is here again,
With the white flowers in his black hand,
With his black skin in this white town.
Glares, stares, pity are thrown his way but
He doesn't see, Oh! He can't see.
What a joy, He won't see this crest fallen world.
The quaint black man is here again,
Maybe to love, Maybe to live
He marches to the river proudly,
Everyday to hear a woman's sob.
Gives her the white flower, and listens to her
Fragments of sentences that concludes her life story
But doesn't make sense somehow.
He does not dare utter a word and send her choking on her misery
He speaks when she commands him to.
She, for the first time, feels her words are worth.
For the first time, feels she is worth.
Quaint black man sings happy songs in this sad town.
The white little girls and boys holds his rough hand one day,
They screech the songs worst than him,
And the town feels a little alive.
They jump on puddles, walk to the edge of this town.
And run around in doodles.
He smiles though his grey hair at this blue town.
Quaint black man turns white someday.
Cold as ice and melts the entire town's heart.
Quaint black man isn't so quaint anymore,
Men shed a tear or so at the death of their town's happiness
Women sobs for a man they fell in love with but never knew him.
The children grow up to become the quaint black man,
This worlds needs more so,
A man who turns blind to critics,
A man who sings and doesn't sighs,
A man who listens to ramble, and rambles himself,
A man who let people know their worth and knows his worth.
A man who loves and lives till his last breath.
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Be this quaint black man that our world needs desperately.
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UNSPOKEN
Poetry"Cigarette or any other drugs don't nearly cause as much destruction as our thoughts do. So, don't leave them Unspoken" ****
