(My Father Was My Shield, Yet My Mother Was My Sword)

 

Sickened by it's touch, yet life was stricken from my presences.

I blinked twice and still questioned, why?

Was a man meant to be an artist, burned from the cloth of creativity,

yet set on fire for having an imagination?

Answers formed from logic, yet built in stone.

 

Clay rose from dust, yet only to be captured by the sun.

Pigments of ice meant to be formed of snow, yet only to be destroyed by rays of light.

Answers and questions were formed to be dictionaries,

yet the life of one wasn't meant to be saved twice.

I was once a child and now reborn in the image of man.

I was once ashamed by my appearance, because the color of my skin.

 

Racist remarks embedded in broken skin,

distorted images running down my cheek,

and yet I was enraged because I didn't understand.

Yet I wasn't of adolescence, I grew to compromise with those who were damned.

I was stripped of my identity to be input into situations that resemblance impossibilities.

I was caged as a bird, yet set go as a beast.

 

Yet they set a course of a vision, to imprison me as an image yet not finished.

Only to harvest the mind of a genius,

formed in heat and harden in ice, yet sharpen like steel.

Yet I thought myself damaged, something unwanted.

The whole time my father was my shield and my mother was my sword.

 

Cutting down my foes, before they could even think to touch me twice.

I once was a burden, once famed to be nothing,

and now my only driven passion is to be acknowledging by all.

Yet I was once sentence to death by fire, sicken by his touch;

I swallowed the beast to cure the disease.

Now lays a shallow shell, left whipping for his lost help.

Now I'm a forgetting name, a forgotten frame,

only now to stand a legend for all to be entertained.