In a pot made of clay with arms stretched out wide
I sit on display with no place to hide.
The world is alive only inches away
Yet behind a still pane, I die on display.
In time long ago I grew in a field
With the Sun on my face & the Earth at my heels.
When no sooner I rose from God's renewed hand
I was plucked from my home; my roots still in the sand.
There in your palm with my thorns in your skin
You took with the nights shadow shielding your sin.
And carried me home to be shown as a prize.
An efflorescent spectacle for worshipping eyes.
Until dry and withered the blades from my crown
Fall softly like snowflakes, these tears raining down.
And discarded like rubbish a new rose takes me place.
A blood covered jewel for the good Human race.
YOU ARE READING
The Sun Called Me Beautiful: Tales Of A Young Black Heart
PoetryThis will be a collection of poems dealing with the power of self-love & the freedom that comes from vehemently deciding not to compare yourself to anyone except who you have grown from.
