Your thoughts are like paint dripping off a canvas
Decorating the floor with your ideas
The reds and blues
A thousand hues
But one color always seems to be missing.

The museum is filled to the brim with your art
A rainbow of pain and love
An ocean of wonder
Every color you could come up with.
All but one.

You paint the sky and the moon
The stars and the forests
You draw out the sunsets and silhouettes
You’ve painted a galaxy.
But you think it’s incomplete.

You are my favorite artist.
I could stare at the pieces you create forever
And hope that I could be the color you need.
That one day,
You could paint me pink.

I tried fitting in with them but was told my skin was to dark and that I was not the type.
I asked a darker crowd for companionship but was denied because I was told I talk white.
In reality they ment proper but I cannot hate my own people for what they don't know.
In a country where a letter from Willie Lynch divided us and still stunts our growth.

We were deprived of our name, religion, and planted an idea in our head that lighter is better.
Features once  seen as a sign of ugliness such as big lip or now being imitated and make others jealous.
These life scars remain though, that rain from feeling left out seemed to only get wetter.
Hoping one day this alienated feeling will dry up but one can only be zealous.

Hey mom-dad, listen.
Hit me, hate me, throw me out,
But don't shut me up.

Why do male passengers leave their seats
For young women, youthful ladies?
For demonstrating gentlemenly ethics
Or for paying due honour
While women empowerment snores in mere wildest dreams..