Madness Of The Melanin

Standing in front of the mirror, what do you see? Is it the shade of your skin you can't stomach? Can't swallow the fact that you were born in a shade of black? Can't stand how the palm doesn't look like the black hand side? Why is there a black hand side? What's wrong with the other half? It's all a question. Young brother, young sister, we are black because our hearts beat tough like the slave masters did to us years ago. They say beauty is skin deep, but you think that fact is bullshit, cause you want beauty in and out. You want that complexion of acceptance, complexion that guarantees a seat in the V.I.P of the political parties constituted by hair as smooth as silk. Complexion that can walk into Barney's under no suspicious radar. To leave Barney's with bags, that carry the weight of your status, after fucking up some commas. So you bleach your skin faithfully, as if God will accept the unacceptable. You get that plastic surgeon to narrow that African nose, like the symbol of your true self disgusts you. Why must you go on feeling like that? It don't matter what you do to your outter, cause your inner will always be black. You'll sit amongst other blacks and know those ebonics, those phrases, the answer to those #askrachel memes. You'll be carrying on at home listening to family speak in voices filled with a struggle to grasp why these cops can't keep their distance, why these cops hit with hate, shoot with sickening satisfaction to take another life from this earth. Or what about the sweet smell of soul food? That fried chicken, Collards greens, and everything in between is calling your name! But you hate yourself right? Can't stand the sight of such beautifully intricate mahogany skin stretching for miles and miles, over a body of strength, a masterpiece in a frame you could never escape. But this frame, this very frame that holds your soul, you want it shattered, scattered all over in pieces. When your soul isn't whole, when it is empty and hollow like the shell of an egg, it cracks, crumbles under the pressure you've placed upon yourself. Your brain, it scrambles, it fries because lies you despise become truths to your gullible mind. So foolish that you refuse to see the sunny side of life because your darkness is your God given feature. To hate self is to hate God, to slap his face, to spit in his direction, setting a burning flame in your heart, sending tears down his beautiful eyes. Seems everyday like his sacrifices were in vain cause you're vain when you deeply gaze in the mirror. You can scrub that skin day in, day out, cry pools of tears cause you want them to wash away the brown stain you were covered in. Your color doesn't define an indefinite fact about the character you hold inside. Baby, drop your pride by the way side! Would you let a lava of red orange blood boil over, spilling onto everyone you hate who rests comfortably in the bodies they cherish? Snarl at those who chose to wear their melanin as honorary ammunition? Judging by my intuitive intuition, I know the answer I inquire. Young brother, young sister, stand tall and mighty in your structure, stop thinking because you're black you don't equate! Don't crush under unnecessary weight while you wait to become a few shades lighter. Don't curse the sun with a foul tounge trying to shade what was meant to be. Soak up the warmth, soak up the enriching vitamins vital to your being. You can't run, you can't hide, even with closed eyes comes darkness.......

This poem is about: 
Our world

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