my copper skin glazes in the sun.
And my almond eyes twinkle.
I sweat the fruits of my labor,
and make my living plucking from your collection
I shape my hands deformed,
and sing songs of home praised Africa,
and long walks in native pools.
I grieve standing up,
and deal with the separation of
I work all day,
and gain little rest.
To wake up and do it all over again.
I stand an alien,
abducted by those you call white.
And unlike you,
I can't phone home.
Get AI Feedback on your poem
Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
If You Need Support
If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741