I am just like you, except there is something stopping me
Racism; Stunting me from the same opportunities as any other person
Being an outcast, a black sheep in a world of white sheep
Due to the melanin in my skin, a feature everyone has that is skin deep

I come from the natural essences of meticulous hair products in my hair
Used to tame my true being because it looks "*****" when in reality my hair is but of African descent, as am I
As I walk past you, you give me nasty looks as the smell of my tamed curls wafts to your nose
I walk like you, talk with the same tongues as you, see like you do, and have a soul within the vessel of my body and hear the same way
Only the things I hear and see are not kind or compliments about things I wear or how I look

Instead, I am met with hateful eyes, pointing fingers and a raised voice
I am judged for anything I do: my native tongue, my natural curls, and the color of my skin
You look at me with belligerent eyes, your hands moving around symbolically to create a point
I am just you, just with many differences between us and a whole different world; yours without segregation

I am just like you, I can express how I feel in different ways just like you can
I can create music with my tongue and I can create a dance with the rhythm my ancestors blessed upon me
I can create a sketch or painting with my hands to express the tragedies segregation has caused
I move my feel methodically to the words of God himself, which uplift my conflicted soul in desperate need of prayer

I am just like you, except my world consists of using “colored” bathrooms and sitting in places only for “colored” people
Is the reason that I am called colored is due to the color of my skin, which is unnatural to your European eyes?
I go to church just like you and believe in the same ten commandments just as you
If there’s one thing you should know, it is that I am just like you; I am human
mbm

Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.

They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.

Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.

Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.

...   ...   ...

I know why the caged bird sings.

It's not because his song
is as vibrant
as his feathers, that he plucks away
each day because he doesn't
feel beautiful.

It's not because of the majesty
that exist in the freedom
of being able to spread his wings
though he knows
he'll never rise to the occasion.

He sings because he believes
that this cage
was made for a king
because he has never tasted
freedom with a side order of skies.

He's never flown past the sun
on a cool morning
or hung with the moon
on a warm night.

He's only ever known
the comfort of a prison
that his thoughts have
become accustomed
to calling home.

He would never venture
beyond the "welcome" mat
because what's beyond the threshold
holds no promise
the way these bars and metal locks do.

He sings because he knows
that no one is listening
so if he makes a mistake
he doesn't have to live with the regret
or embarrassment of knowing that he missed his note.

The caged bird
never believes that he's caged
because behind these walls
he's safe
and he prefers it this way.

I know why the caged bird sings.

Prickly pokey
I guess I'm kind of hokey
cacti are my jam!