The Sun Called Me Beautiful: Tales Of A Young Black Heart

The Butterfly

Here in my shell all calm and secure

I'm waiting and changing for better I'm sure.

Once I was that which slimy and green

But soon, I'll be prettier than all that you've seen.

Waiting and hoping my heart starts to dream

Of days that I'll fly with the wind on my wings.

What colors I'll turn, maybe red, orange and blue.

Or gold like sun with my high yellow hue.

Impatiently desperate as days pass me by

I hear all the praise of others who fly.

My mind starts to wonder, my heart starts to worry.

Oh, how I wish that time would just hurry.

From slimy green skin, my wings start to form.

Or is it my mind playing tricks on a worm?

Oh my, I am changing, for better I'm sure.

What praise I shall get, just a few days more.

And now like an egg the shell starts to break

The time has now come, and I must awake.

So, shaking and breaking I'm finally free

To go show the world what I've come to be.

But first, I must look at all my fine colors

And see how they fair with the millions of others

No doubt I'm the fairest of all of my kind.

How I can't wait to see these new feathers of mine.

So deep in the wood, I find a still pond

And floating atop is a leaf to sit on.

I land very still on the rim of the leaf

Looking down in disgust. In pure disbelief.

No color, no shapes not a single design

No nothing of interest on these wings of mine.

I'm pale as a ghost and as plain as a cloth

Not a butterfly at all, God made me a moth.

Here hanging my head in gluttonous shame

I see something flutter in the gloss of this pane.

Another foul creature flying wildly and free

Who gave them permission, could they give it to me?

Landing there on my sailboat to wash off his face

He gazed at me, sullen in my pool of disgrace.

His voice rang out widely his beautiful song  

A hymn of pure joy as if nothing was wrong.

"Has no one told you? Have you not even looked?

We're the ugliest things floating on this still brook."

He just shook his head and out way he fluttered

said, "he never much cared for opinions of others!"

And there with his words ringing loud in my head

I sat and I thought on my watery bed.

What does it mean to truly be free?

To only be burdened by my own decree.

And there in that moment, I found this conclusion.

That beauty is just an elusive illusion

For if I were red and purple and blue

They surely would ask, "Why no yellow in you?"

So yes, I'm a moth with no colorful wings

But still I can fly over treetops and things.

I laugh, and I SING, Yes, I stand in the sun!

For who says that beauty is only for one?