tHe CoLoR oF iRoNy

A life time of ignorance,

discrimination whispered into the billowing breeze,

my articulation better than those of 'my kind',

the prejudice that is passed from generation to generation,

kids swearing, 'No I'm not racist'.


My diction and elocution, superior to the black stereotype,

*cough* ,*cough* educated, *cough* 'non- ghetto',

often being called an Oreo.

Black on the outside, while white on the inside.

A mulatto child, half white, and half black,

the naysayers aren't completely wrong, but sadly it doesn't quite work that way. 

You shan't be characterized, based on your race


The notion, or preconceived idea of how a black person should act, being taught to me by white people, seems not only preposterous, but a little ironic.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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