My hair is darker
than the midnight sky:
black, like night with no stars,
it rolls down the curve of my spine. Down to the middle of my back.
It is there that it hangs,
like a noose around my neck;
the billboard that says
who I am: the outsider.
No matter what I do, dye, tie, cut, wash, dry,
it'll never change.
The trademark of my identity is ingrained
in the colour of my braids.
It screams.
The outsider, that's me.
YOU ARE READING
The Outsiders
PoetryA poetic account of racism in modern day society: shedding light on the situation.
