Wednesday, November 11, 2015

#Don'tAsk




Don't ask

me
about my experience
of being "Black"

as if
I escaped

with my now tinted skin
the stained remains
or the after effects
of a violent spiteful
paint-ball
attack.

As if
now left
to hide
then when

found

defend
this added strange pigment

which either
toughens the hide

or
leaves
you
as weakened tea--

watery thin.

A weeping willow.

Or walled, balled, curled
up tight. Yet
when standing straight up
positioned
for flight;
most often:

Fight.

Don't ask

what's it like
to be me

since I am just
one 'leaf'
under the expansive
branches
of an internationally
sub-divided
multi-colored
tree.

Though the wind quivers all
and the frost chillingly
will freeze
each and every
limb-
burr

to various degrees.

As the seasons
rolled, bounced, or crawled
steadily along,

though, I saw and heard
the crowds
shouting,
repeatedly
and loud:
"I'm Black
and I'm proud,"

the songs I sang
did not
to 'one' culture
belong.

So,

Don't ask

as if choices are given
when you are born.

The privilege is in life
and in living.

A Divine Gift
from a Creator
impartial and

forgiving.

Not
any
nation or group
does He scorn.

So,

Don't ask.

The response
puts emotions
to task.

And the responses
are never
really
simply

black or white.

So why ask?