Asylum: Afro-American Poetry for the mind.

Why they couldn't tell me My black wasn't beautiful

The white man.

For once they weren't able to justify why.

Why the color of our skin was so

So Beautiful. Pure melanin running deep

Through years of history.

The white man wants to tell us

That we caused.

Swing Low sweet chariots carrying

Decades of blood, sweat and tears.

Swing Low for Kunta, for Harriet

For Sojourner, for Fredrick,

Malcom X, for Dr. King. For

Mrs. Parks. They tried to tell me my black

Wasn't beautiful, they said I was filthy,

No turning back now they already damaged me

But when I told them that

No matter how they felt...

MY BLACK WAS STILL WITH ME

They tried to bleach me.

They tried to erase me.

They tried to tell me that my black was

To be an everlasting

Mystery.

I WILL STAND FOR THE COLOR OF MY SKIN.

They will beat me with

Their eyes.

Lynch me with tongue.

Play me for a fool.

But they cannot and will not

Tell me that My Black

Isn't beautiful.

They can lie to my face

Tell me what I want to hear.

The history books have spoken

Yet their ignorance runs clear

"We don't want ya'll niggas here"

They can act like they are better

Then all their ancestors

But at the end of the day

MY BLACK IS ALL THAT MATTERS.

It's the way my skin radiates my

Intelligence to the world.

"You don't sound black"

"You don't act black"

What exactly is Black?

Is it Jim Crowe?

Is it Ruby Bridges?

Is it my brothers and sisters drinking

from segregated water fountains?

Is it the fact that we cannot love

Out of our racial standards.

When they told me

That I wasn't like the other.

Young girls bleaching their black off

Whilst white girls run to look like us.

This was when you couldn't tell me

MY BLACK wasn't beautiful.

I'm fine with my skin,

The way my eyes shine in the sunlight

The way my hips switch in the street

The sass of voice.

Ya'll cannot give me any advice

On how to be black

Or how to live my life.

I'm fine with being black.

I love who I am!