Black,

Black, with Rose Color Glasses

Black,

Deep, within the hollows of my soul

carries me.

•

on rivers,

in darkness,

through pain.

•

The substance of my existence.

•

Yet,

Extending.

Exposing,

the frailty of my life.

•

Engulfed by an immutable deceit.

•

Blackness,

an anchor of duality

their problem, my burden.

•

Mocked, scorned, beaten, murdered.

Secretly revered, publicly hated.

Weighted, yet elevated. . .

gracefully favored to be black.

•

Gracefully favored, I am black,

with Rose Colored glasses.

Through them, I am unshackled.

Rose’, veils the sanguine red of homicide

as it escapes through black skin.

•

A murdered corpse… dead to the world, appears merely asleep.

Scars of abuse fade, when witnessed through my painted lenses.

Years of neglect are obscured beyond their rosy hue.

Shadowy spectacles, which, if skewed at a precise angle,

render hopelessness, misery, and despair, virtually unrecognizable.

•

I am Black, peering through Rose colored glasses,

worn to hide my horror

at the brutality of which I am forced to bear witness…

to hide my astonishment over man’s hatred of

the very melanin that I love.

•

Glasses, donned to hide my bloodshot gaze,

from the countless tears

I cry,

to hide the swollen eyes of insomnia,

as I ponder

change.

I am black.

I wear rose colored glasses.

And until the world changes,

behind them,

looking out,

is where you’ll find me.

Ase’