Sun, 11/30/2014 - 01:42 -- Jo Bien
The pressure to meet the mark of a standard that is ever heightening
And never compromising
Is seemingly an everlasting presence that can either be disregarded
In essence,
Taken to heart.
Such an expectation
Puts 200 pounds of weight on greatness when im sorry,
But I can only bench 50.
And so it strips me of my inalienable human right proclaimed by
Forefathers and God the  Father to be mine and to clothe me,
And yet today,
In spite of their promises
Here I stand,
Unable to be who I am:
For I am expected to be
The educated black woman,
Knowledge beyond the stars,
Sophistication to prove age is just a number,
Ethnic pride to portray how beautiful my black really is;
The obedient daughter
With my yes as yes and no nonexistent,
Never daring to step over the lines and boundaries persistent,
Stagnant before tall railings created to prohibit the release of my inhibitions;
The flawless girlfriend,
Flesh of his flesh
And bone of his bone
Without crack or fragment
Always whole and without need of a cast to help heal because
You can't restore what was never broken because
I'm not allowed to be broken because
I'm misunderstood because
My shortcomings don't make me good,
Though I'm human ;
The honored sister,
Selfless and  always protective of those beneath me
Because apparently
I don't need me time
Because my time is not my time
But seemingly their time;
When really its His time
And neither mine nor theirs;
Our time,
But rather the King's time
So who are they to claim it?
The devout Christian
With Verses engrained like the alphabet,
Fearing even to breathe sinfully,
God forbid I blink shamefully.
And so this is what I have portrayed myself to be for years too long to count on fingers,
Days too long to remember,
For moments irreplaceable,
Memories unmistakable
That were spent on stage in the spotlight with a painted happy face instead of truly smiling in the shadows,
The limelight,
The background,
Making every time I'm back on the ground a site for disappointed as well as sore eyes because I wasn't good enough for them yet again.
Last name doesn't matter
Cuz my first name stands to proclaim
Who I am and will remain to be to them:
But what about who I really am
And what I truly posses?
My flaws shape my greatness,
My imperfections caress my being like hips and fit perfectly in place as a puzzle putting me together.

For internally,
I deviate from the standard that others created for me.
Greater than what's expected,
I defy ALL odds
With odds a million to one.
I have within me the potential to become grander as
My downfalls grow me and
My faults show me that
I am an artistic poet
With words to say,
Syllables to portray,
Vowels to express.
My internal riots and self unrest protest
Like riots and unsettled citizens brewing shouts and cries for justice in the cauldron of Ferguson.
Double, double toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Injustice has been dealt to me by those surrounding me like Jericho
And they silence the evidence that show I have
Things that matter more than
My black feminist claims,
My childlike obedience vain,
My soul mate persona and sibling role,
My saved shouts and hallelujahs told.
I only wish they could see

What the mirror of my heart shows me every morning cuz it doesn't lie.

For it reflects what I know,

What I see,
As it exposes me,
The noble personality within:
Humorous and intelligent,
Understanding and patient,
Inquisitive and humble,
Honest and loyal,
Extroverted and caring,
Weary though made strong in my weaknesses,
Constantly showing love through sweet endless kisses atop the forehead and upon the cheek,
Placed on his lips to forever be and reveal that
This is me,
Worthy of recognition and spotlight
Deserving a fighting chance
To dance in the sun
With my hair out
Laying back down
Upon the lilies of a promising future
And a people to accept me
For me.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 



Anomaly,YOU ARE AMAZING with WORDS! I appreciate YOU!

Jo Bien

Wow! Thank you so much! All glory to Jesus! Thrilled that you enjoyed my poem:)) 

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