Lost From the Future and the Past

What if I were to fall for him?
Where would that leave me standing?

Would I be caught up in fantasies and constantly demanding his touch?
Or would the light I once held slowly fade to dim?
Honestly, would we even last or crash?

He kills me with every look.
He is able to read me like a book especially when my legs open like pages.

And as I spread my legs and wrap them around his back like a Georgian vine,
I became his crazy Kudzu as I feel his soul.
And when I am lost in him, I react to thoughts of our
future,
present,
and past.

If I knew the man he was, in his hands my hands would not be.
If he knew the woman I was, I would not be holding a key to his heart.
For my heart was black, stained by pain.
And every song I sang reigned with my shame.
I was a crippled songstress.

My lips would not have been something he would kiss for they destroyed
Minds by the whip of my tongue.
Every guy that I had, I broke them down because it was fun.
I was a horrible person and I relished in my destruction.

But then I saw him, the love of my existence, trying to fix his own corruption.
I saw him at the local bar, sitting on the stage.
And even with his head down, hands slightly hitting the drums,
I knew he complimented my struggles and my dreams, my past ad my future.

He was older, yes, and I did not know his story but I knew where he was
Trying to go and his look just floored me.
He was sad and dark.
But as he looked to the audience, the dim from his halfway smile left a mark.

I knew I loved him from the start.

He began singing while slightly hitting the drums.
The audience's ears were pierced by his voice.
But all I heard was a cry for help coupled with the natural instinct to run.

Determined to make our solo a duet, I walked to the stage and stared into his eyes.
I wanted us to see one another and let our old selves die.

I extended my hand and he helped me onto the stage; the
Rhythm of the drums vibrating our touch.
I took the mic and provided a small melody, nothing more nothing less.
Our love, our song was simple.

When our song was over and the claps ensued, he took my hand as we walked off the stage.
When we sat down, it seemed we were both free from our cages by the
Sound of each other's name…

Laying next to him now,
Watching the sun kiss his skin,
I begin to smile at our future beginnings.

So what if I were to fall for him.
How often does happiness occur?

If my dim fire were to fade to darkness,
I know I will be reignited by the love of this man.

Colors

I am known as black,

But in actuality my skin tone is a shade of brown.

The way I form my words causes my peers

to mock me as white.

So you see, I often find myself in a

spectrum of confusion.

My world, for the most part is always a sky blue,

filled with possibilities and opportunities; the world is not a

burden, it’s an oyster.  

And once you get to know me, oh how

I shine bright, mirroring a yellow hue!

But sometimes green comes over me and

I am envious.

I am envious when I see money,

When I see people in magazines,

When I see portraits of similar physiques that

Will never be my physique.

So to the bathroom I run.

And in the toilet I see

different colors, I see me.

I see a sickness.

I see an obsession.

I see self-hate.

I see loss.

I see society.

I see a destructive perception.

And in the mist of all those colors,

I see the color pink.

Pink, pink, pink.

“Pink is sexy; pink equals pretty; pink makes the guys wink.”

Thinking about my youth, I realized that my spirit was once

A vibrant red.

But then over the years, it began to be washed away.

The first coat of white wash: The Social Construct of What a Female Should Be;

“You are a girl. Be a girl and look pretty.”

The second coat: How to Be Loved;

“If you want a guy, if you want to be loved, COOK A MEAL AND DUMB IT DOWN!”

And the third coat: The Idea of Success;

“Success for you is not measured in your accolades or ingenuity. No, your success, my sweet,

Pretty girl is measured in marriage and children.”

So now here I stand,

Stained in the color pink. Yuck!

When people look past my brown skin,

Or no longer see me as a black female or no longer

her my white speech patterns, they see pink.

It has come to the point, that it is imperative for them

To see pink.

They want to see something worth looking at

And not worth hearing; my red is unacceptable.

My blue is unfathomable; it is just

Simply unheard of to be ambitious. According to them, my world should revolve around

Children and men, not possibilities, not opportunities.

My color green is befriended with the color pink.

Pink loves green and green loves pink; unworthiness meet hatred.

They feed each other through their favorite spoon: insecurity.

The color pink,

A diluted red that perpetuates female servitude.

“Be a girl, wear pink! Be a lady, love pink! You with the ovaries, forever think pink!”

No one wants to see my courageous purple heart

Or see my blue sky of possibilities.

All they want to see is me being pretty in pink.