To-Not-Do, To-Do

It’s a task;
Trying not to be hardened
By the world
You have to live in,
Because there is no other one,
Because there is no other you.

It’s a task;
To not succumb
To ideals that weren’t made for you
Because you weren’t born that way,
Because you aren’t man-made.

It’s a task;
Trying not to listen
To the resonating words
Of your parents inside your head.
Because while they are wise,
Their time has passed
And it is you who has to live
With yourself and
The decisions you make.

It’s a task;
Learning to love yourself,
When all your life you’ve been told
That you’re ugly,
When you never got picked for anything,
Because your beauty wasn’t obvious
Like everyone else’s,
Because your beauty was far inside you.

It’s a task;
Thinking on your own,
Seeking knowledge for yourself,
Instead of being a receptacle
For whatever is distributed
By who knows whom,
Because you know that’s not all there is,
Because you know many things are missing.

It’s a task;
Trying not to explode
When more articles cross your eyes
About why it is not okay
For you to copied while being hated as the original.
Because why does it not look good on me
When I was the one born with it?

It’s a task;
Trying to grasp the truth
That there are some – many –
Who really don’t know
That the darkness still exists,
That it did not disappear
Because many fought and died,
Because many today still die
Despite their desperate fight
To remain alive.

It’s a task;
Trying to raise children
In a world that doesn’t love them,
To explain to other
That we are not other,
That they are not pure
That we are all mixtures
That it is far too late in time
To claim separate onenesses,
That we are all one
And all the same
That the reason we are different
Is because of a made up name.
It really doesn’t exist.
There is nothing
To prove it true,
That beneath our varying shades of skin
Our blood is all the same hue.

It’s a task;
Trying to keep race out of anything these days,
To remain silent
When an other says
“It doesn’t always have to be” about it.
It’s a task to not to talk back,
To change my vision
From what I’ve been made to see.
It’s a task to keep my insides from boiling
Every time I think about anything,
Like if I happen to die prematurely,
It may not, as I have thought, be the result
Of any traffic accident, or a natural disaster,
Or maybe being struck by lightning,
But that it may be the result
Of my skin causing someone to think
I am dangerous,
That my dark hands
Might somehow be conceived
As criminal, as threatening,
That I may not die by accident at all,
But that I may be killed
Because I happened to be born
The colour of the earth.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s