dear stereotypical people,
you make me sick.
i mean, who are you to tell me what i can and can't do because i don't have a ****?
why do you think that this is a rap? is it because i'm black?
because i live on an island, i must be wild and uncouth?
and whenever i speak my mind, i'm another rebellious youth?
dear stereotypical people,
you see my glasses and call me a nerd?
and make fun of me because I know of words you've never heard?
oh i'm sorry, that i took my education seriously.
and i swear if another person says 'girl you're so tall, you have to play ball.'
i'm gonna run head first into a gaddamn wall.
dear stereotypical people,
why do you trust the white man in a suit but not the black man in the hoodie?
is it because he looks cleans and exudes goodie goodie?
dear stereotypical people,
please mind your business
which i'm pretty sure doesn't include how that teenage mom and her child are living.
dear stereotypical people,
why do women that are open about *** make you wanna run away?
i mean, i'm pretty sure it shouldn't matter what she does with her body unless she's your wife
my God, why can't y'all let people live their lives?
dear straight men that lust over gay women,
NO WE DONT WANT TO ******* WITH YOU
**** it, we like the same thing you do!
dear people of the world,
yes I live in the Bahamas
no I do not live in a hut, eat coconuts and go on the beach every day.
dear stereotypical people,
i promise i don't hate you
i do hate how you look down upon people that live differently from you, that see differently from you, that think differently from you.
i would hope that you know that this world does not revolve around you, no one will stop being who they are because of you.
don't get me wrong, some people hurt because of what you do.
just think about how you would feel if it were you.
my prayer is only that you think before you say.
and maybe one day, you'll all see the error in your ways.

Pretty girls don't cry
Guess with all the makeup how could I
Ladies don't drink
Guess with all my pain ill just Take your man
Sober
Cuz i'm pretty right?

Stereotypical Diva, She too quiet
Guess she stuck up
She's gotta be a ***, why she always lucks up?
Sugar baby,Slays
Waist training made her that way

The world is insecure
Lots of pain that we endure
reflecting judgment on others, to forget our demonic flaws

The most beautiful thing I've ever read-
was a love poem that I found,
hidden between the dusty cupboards of my mother's room,
filled with things that just
"didn't matter"
anymore.

It was flooding with thoughts I waved off as-
"foolish"
with fake plastic vows of love,  
not unlike those crisp, shiny valentine heart rings,
only given to the most attractive every February.

Stories of parting,
from which shone a glossy sparkle like that of a fake glass diamond,
labeled with black numbers as something worth a thousand.
I've always thought that if you were going to leave someone, you should be aloof and cold.
If you make "warm memories", won't the parting just be that much harder?

That sunset that was described as being unrealistically
ethereal,
I tried to see it myself,
even hooking my feet around the cold metal bars of the balcony,
and pretending that I could fly.
But that sunset was fake too, I discovered.
A synonym of those medals that you eagerly await to get, but in the end,
aren't gold,
or silver,
but just a sheet of mocking plastic,
thousands of identical ones of which have been made,
in a factory choking on smog,
thousands of miles away,
in China.

There was always that villain,
who would try to break the lovers apart.
Sometimes,
the villain was described as, "dark", and "Irresistible".
I was puzzled by that fact,
mulling obsessively over the idea,
Why didn't the protagonist get with the villain in the end?

I was undeniably jealous, of the heroine,
who seemed to draw everyone to her with a warm light,
that I didn't seem to have, no matter how hard I tried.
She was a perfect damsel in distress,
waiting for her partner, who would always,
always,
without fail, come to save her from danger and the unknown.
They were both risking everything for what they loved.

"Stereotypical love poem,"
I scoff,
willing myself to throw that piece of paper away with the trash,
But-
to this day, the most beautiful thing I have read,
is that stereotypical love poem,
now tucked between two bookshelves,
which are full of things, that
"matter"
now.