Poetic Justice

My colour, My importance

Tears flow down my olive skin,
It is something that I am used to,
The pain of being different,
The pain of being told that I will
Never fit in,
The pain of being given, what I never
Even asked for,
But being judged for it.

I look down at my hands,
This skin, that I am judged for,
This skin, that makes me seem less,
Or makes me seem more.
This skin that bases opinions about Me,
This skin that people associate me With.

This colour that makes me stand out,
This colour that makes me who I am.

But no one knows the truth,
There is a difference see,
A sweet sweet difference,
Between my colour,
And between my importance.

My colour, is purely based on my
Genes,
Purely based on a strange thing called
DNA.
My forefathers and their skins.

But my importance,
Is what really matters, I feel.
It is not who I see in the mirror,
But who comes out when I open my
Mouth.
It is not how pale my legs are,
But it is how I consider other's
Feelings.

Nations have fought,
Yet I stand here,
Like an awkward sunflower,
In the midst of beautiful roses.

Nations have spoken,
Yet my skin,
Is more important than my words.
Yet my colour,
Is more important than my heart.

I have cried myself to sleep,
All because of a timeless question,
Asked day in, and day out.

What are you?
The question still stings me to this Day.
As iff I am some strange alien being,
As iff I am something that's feelings,
Can easily be disregarded.

What are YOU?
The question still angers me to this
Day.
Surely I am not pained by your words, Surely you are not hurting me by
Saying, by asking that...
Surely I am some object,
With nonexistent feelings...

But in the midst of my despair,
In the midst of my running tears,
I came up with an answer,
Perhaps not a solution to my problem,
But an answer nevertheless.

What Are You?
I am human,
My skin glows not in sunlight, the
Way yours does,
But it still glows in it's own way, does
It not?
My skin does not look like yours,
But neither does your heart,
Look like mine.
I may not be formed in the way you
Are formed,
But neither are your words,
Formed the way mine are.

My colour, is not who I am,
It speaks not of my importance,
My colour, and My importance.
Two completely different things.

~n.s

(A/n: I was really emotional as I wrote this poem, because my skin colour has always been a problem for me. I have always been an outcast because of it. But I have finally learnt to accept myself.
Xoxo.
Nikita.)