I wish I were uncolored,
as transparent as a cool glass of water.

B'cause to be uncolored,
I would be invisible to the piercing swords
of spiteful hearts. 
If I were uncolored, 
then ignorance would be shards
and the magnificence of my mind could 
be seen, and others would be forced
to acknowledge that I am a woman
of phenomenal rare,
to be lauded.

Is it my walking with my head 
touching the sun that crushes your poise?
Or is it my laid-back flair 
that makes you drabbed?
Allow me to be obscured from your 
naked eye so I can dazzle in the limelight 
of my inheritance without being damned.

Should I be concealed,
then I would not be made to eat
in the basement,
instead,
taking a seat on parliament's peak,
and riding a white horse to glory land,
an extraordinaire, uplifted and heralded.

Does it behoove you when I 
rejoice in my holy boldness?
Or does it make more sense 
for me to recoil in inner poverty?
Afford me the chance to be hidden
from your presence; maybe then 
I'll  pass through the fire of your vanity,
and I'll be appreciated, even in times
that I may fall.

I wish I were uncolored,
as clear as a crystal gourd.

For if  I were uncolored, maybe 
people would see me for me.