Voice like silk lips of milk
skin of cream she's a dream
her mind is a prism, turning the dull into divine
she sees the best in even the worst dressed
the fine in the benign the greatness in his lateness because she knows that he only needs a spark to start to glow.
So many before have pushed aside the idea that we could be more than the melanin in our skin and the conduct of a neighborhood's character.
The stereotypes you create leave us in an archetype which does not define us in our true majesty.
We are the ways and means, the kings and the queens of our own stories.
Our words have more power than the credit there given and it seems that your bill is not yet paid for the treachery of your slain.
My brothers and sisters who knew not their potential for it was hung from trees out of their reach, leaving them swinging like strange fruit. You who don't know.
