They come in all sizes, shapes, colors, designs.
They are Roses, Dandelions, Sunflowers.
Violets, Daises.
They are weeds.
Some stand tall and strong.
Others bent and weary.
Tears glisten from their skin like dew drops.
Fall from their eyes like rain drops.
The sun that once nourished them has made their hair dry up in morbid gray stands, hanging down like fruitless vines.
Withered petals fall down from their crowns like the first snowflakes of winter.
How they long for spring.
They cry out to God for the seasons to change.
They stand and die.
They lie and live.
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.
