poetry for delight

uncolour me; tales of an african american

"Uncolour Me."

Come, you spirits that

tend on mortal thoughts.

Uncolour me here.

I'm tired of this.

Disgraced.

Uncolour me.

You've discoloured me.

This is no disguise.

This is just pain,

pain I have to face looking

in the mirror.

I'm poor, robbed of

rights, structure.

Moses may have chosen

someone like me,

but not everyone is Moses.

You see, earth is a tree.

Some trees are beautiful,

but others, they bear

strange fruit.

They say this is freedom,

yeah, and so is prison.

Holy, holy, run.

Run from man.

Run from the white man.

He'll catch up, but you've

gotta run, my brother.

Brethren, sisters, stand.

The longer you sit, peaceful,

the taller they tower.

This has got to stop.

Stand up. For me, for you,

Us, them.

Stand for our rights, the ones

we've asked for.

The ones-for heaven's

sake-we deserve.

Or the poverty will grow

faster than the roots

of our hair, faster than

the cotton, faster than

all we could ever imagine.

We are poor.

We are different.

Unimportant.

Difficult.

Coloured.

Ain't nobody looking

to help anybody like us.

We're just a pester,

a sinful hindrance.

Evil.

Sadistic.

Murderous.

Look at us, could we

be labelled more?

We are hateful,

deceitful, distant,

Odd or as some may

say, strange.

Those trees bear us,

Strange fruit.

"Blood on the leaves,

Blood at the roots."

We shed our blood not because

we are not sinful, but

because we are the sin.

Uncolour me.

-Keely & Isiah