We talk of how the pen is mightier than the sword.

So why does the ink in my skin continue to be cut by the whit-hot blade of racism?

My hair is black as vanilla bean.

My skin and eyes are dark brown like old African trees.

My soul is black with the ink I use to write my story.

So my pen may be mightier than the sword,

But if I wrote in the blood of my people, they might finally be able to read the words on the page.