Her dreams are as humongous.
Little does she have to wake up and live within them, that's all they ever are "dreams".
Bubbly, funny, ecstatic, at least that's an image she wears for them.
Her laughter is as devoted as her pains, at least that's what they will to see.
Darkness comes, lights go off, her pillow soaks, at least that's where her true image lies.
She can only pour out her bloated heart to her pillow, for it is the only one that never judged her disabilities.
Suffocated by what they believe her reality should look like.
At least the night when the doors are shut and lights are off, her true reality sneaks back in, to stab and twist through her already excruciating wounds.
Her zealous limbs grew weaker and weaker of the anticipated perfection the society kept demanding.
The pillow she confides in drains her even weaker, for where the head rests is where unwelcomed thoughts storm in.
A black child's life is suffocated by what the society anticipates should look like.
YOU ARE READING
Sweet Bitter
Poetrysweetly he appears to operate, bitterly his deeds appear to be, his deeds are a contradiction of who he really is, maliciously and unpleasantly suffocating to be able to inhale in, his a sweet architect but a bitter sparrow, hypocrisy clouded his sw...
