Last night I found myself scraping pieces of my ego off the bathroom mirror
It was splattered on there like paint thrown in an attempt
to cover the rooms reflection in case its pure white walls
decide to scream to me the character of my color.
I mean the colors of my character.
Which way do you think I should have meant it.
How should I have said it
When there are people who look at me
like I wear my skin color as a prison sentence.
White supremacist, white power.
What color do you find your soul to be during clear rain showers.
Is it lined with an aura as black as the skin you hate.
When you lay to rest, years after your finals days
And all that's left is the bones that keep your soul caged
What color is your skin then
Does your skeleton ache to find it in an aim to remember
the luxurious feeling it had when you let it believe that white made it superior
Do the black holes that held onto your white eyes
still see color when they look in front of them
At the only barrier
That still keeps you in the dark
Apart from our reality that past my skin color
I am made of pure love
That I plead to you with poetry to show what people are made of
Once we're done slinking in our costumes and it wilts away,
how many people have made love
To the rainbow-colored soul of a person