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Amaris Oct 2019
My hair is black and yours is yellow
But they never call it that;
Blonde, or like spun gold
Stunning, precious, unattainable.
But you have it,
Like I’ll never have you.
My hair is black but my skin
Is yellow
They call it that
“Slant-eyed”, “foreign”, “unnatural”
At eighteen, I broke black locks with bleach
(I’ve always wanted to be blonde)
And it didn’t look natural at all
I will never be blonde, I will always be
They ask: What are you?
“American, like you”
But they roll their eyes
They tell me to forget my native language
And I don’t know how to tell them I already am
Black and yellow
I think of me then think of bees, and recall
Being stung in the first grade, and how
Ever since, I’m paralyzed at the thought
Of black, and yellow
Black and yellow
Save the bees! on shirts and posters
But no one is saving me.
Darryl M May 2019
I’m of colour, ain’t you?
Do dogs see a pitbull, or just another dog?
Are we animals of our own, or just animalistic?

Fat we call it, we laugh.
Ugly we call it, we laugh.
Strange we call it, we avoid.
Different we call it, we exclude.

Unfamiliar faces to us,
Like stolen goods, we touch not.
Like a judge making a ruling, we talk not.

Is a stranger a stranger, when we come short of association?
Or are we too proud of associating?

I don’t believe in Ugly.
I believe in a stupidly distorted view of people.
Azurel Nov 2018
You used to tell me that beautiful things come from pain and adversity.
Like motherhood, unconditional love, and true stories.
As I stood in the middle of a room painted white,
Staring at the remains of rolling hills burned to black,
I saw you staring back at me.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Shining against your bones
Velvet black
You’ve changed
And changed and changed
Yet your love still remains
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Whiskers are the needles on a compass
Always pointing to the azure sky
You used to sing when I cried
Rolling your r’s over rrolling hills
A haunting melody startling black birds into the night
Feathered constellations against a sliver moon
And lips pressed to my salty cheeks

You told me that your favorite skin tone was chocolate,
As you laid out in the sun hoping to melt. “A quarter black” is what you say when you want to feel proud,
Even as you tell me stories of how your mother was called negrita,
The girl who stood too dark amongst the crowd.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Black like the broken wings of mothers before you
Who had hands with scars from cotton seeds
And blue veins like uprooted trees
Stretching all the way to their tired knees
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Speaking in envy of the color gold
Like you are a broken bowl in need of kintsugi
Yet silver snakes still slither
Over the pebbled river beds of your black curls
Dripping down the small of your back
Until they reach the base of your ivory spine
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Because you never thought
Cocoa lips and sun spots painted on sculpted clay that never cracks
Could ever look as stunning as it does on you

You told me that it is better to speak my truth then tell pretty lies.
So I told you mine and you cried,
And cried and cried.
But look where we are now,
Standing beside each other with the same eyes,
Just different reflections.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Tongue like a sword set ablaze
Tempered in pools of milk and honey
Blood red sun grazing the tops of your eyelids
Still reminiscent of those in old photographs
Where you saw the little girl you search for in me
Burnt fields like black panther fur
I am sorry I made you cry
But even when our backs are turned
We are still
Black birds singing in the dead of night
Thank you mama for my broken wings.
Inspired by a photograph of a burnt field that I saw in an art gallery. For my mom.
Anya Jul 2018
I am in a box
As I reach out
Touch the walls
This strange barrier that separates me
From the other
Anything external
A hand from the box adjacent to mine appears
Splayed against the wall
I reach out mine
The dark and light contrast
Like the Chinese symbol Ying and yang
Other clearly
Even a child could tell the difference
Who does it take to look past the differences?
Natasha Apr 2018
They ask what I am
As if they could draw a map
On my skin
Paved by my color
My hair
And my name

But even I can’t trace the path.
I’m a mutt of people
In time
And yet I am here.
And I am human.
Is that not enough?
Katelynn Mar 2018
the smell of fresh beans
fills by dreams
beckons me forth to my culture, to my people
acceptance is key, but I'm rejected by the world
simply because I don't fit the stereotype
rejected by my people because I don't speak their language

engraved in my heart are the traditions and beliefs of my people
but my body betrays me
I am Mexican
I am American
but the world makes me choose one
because I don't look the way I'm supposed to
Qweyku Jan 2018
I wonder if pictured opinion is found
in the sight of the visually impaired?
& if they might be inclined to share
views meaning behind Beauty Is Blind?

Have they too been sold a melanated lie?
That hue-man shades of brown
ought to be blackened with a frown?
& whitewashed with a lighter sense
of melanted pride?

I ponder,
eyes closed.

Do minds,
deeper see

**© Qwey.ku
On Jan 14, 2018, an ABC online article under the heading: 'UK party suspends leader's girlfriend over Markle remarks' ABC reported on a story being carried by several UK publications discussing private texts sent by UK model;
Jo Marney, girlfriend of the suspended UKIP party leader.
Where she referred to so called 'Black people' as "ugly" adding other disparaging comment and opinion on the intellect and ethnicity of British Royal Prince Harry's fiance Meghan Markle.
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