The Oldest Lie

The oldest lie we tell our children is that we are all equal.
We pretend. We lie. We digress from the truth to shield them from all evils.
But the truth is we dream of such a world where race, creed and colour do not define us.

We protect them from the facts of life and speak of the past, forgetting the present.
We praise MLK, Malcolm and Mandela as civil right heroes,
neglecting the bitter truth that they took the first steps on our long walk to freedom.

Enough is enough. Our children deserve better.
They need to know our struggle.
Only then can we dream of better things.

sometimes grey is really yellow.
he is sunshine on a summer day,
giggling at knock-knock jokes
with punchlines like the wind.

and sometimes grey is really brown.
coated in the mud of puddles
that he was told not to touch
but leapt into anyways.

and sometimes grey is really green.
when he is, he asks questions
as tall as his dandelion legs
that grow taller with each day.

and sometimes grey is really red.
like the day he came into the world
screaming and all-of-the-sudden
with his middle fingers in the air.

and sometimes i am really blue.
when i look at grey, and yellow,
and brown, and green, and red
wondering how he might paint

wondering if the world will see his colors
until grey cups my tears in his hands
throws them into the air
and makes a rainbow.

An avalanche of empathy
             dislodged
covering me in suffocating
                                realisation.

That I wasn't the mountain,
       more the snow.
               Soft and delicate,
   sentiment never compacted enough.

You're either in the path of the demon
Facing down the fear forthcoming
That or away you're running
And I am done with that
As a being forthcoming
About who I want
In this caution  
Of none
I will
Be