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.