My Skin Cannot Be Defined

The pigmentation of my skin declared I enjoy the taste of a watermelon. I made the fact known, even the smell of the fruit, nauseates me.

The melanin-rich flesh of mine stated the flesh of fried chicken drove my taste buds wild. Well, to the dissatisfaction, meat is not a part of my diet. 

Even though I bleed thick of my African ancestry, my identification is that my veins are pumped with artificial flavored cherry drink mix.

I am the wind to the cage created by those close-minded.

I am a dictionary to the piece of paper that wishes to only to describe my superficial appearance. I am a mountain to the hill, that wishes to measure my actual worth and what I am able to do.

My spirit and being cannot be contained, catergorized, or cliched inside of the imprisonment of amounting to just another dark-skinned person.

This poem is about: 


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