BLACK IS NOT A COLOR
Black is the written language I put to paper.
The shadow of ink that runs through my veins.
Black is the power of my words
Expressing my essence,
Compressing my thoughts,
And allowing me to access the poet that lives within me,
Waiting to sing, to scream, to cry, to whisper
What it means to be black.
I, Too Sing Mr. Hughes.
I Wear the Mask of Dunbar.
I am the Outcast of McKay.
And I play a Dark Symphony with Tolson.
I am the softer voice of Malcolm X.
I am the ferocious roar of Rev. King.
I am the education of Mr. Douglass,
And I’m not afraid to show it.
I own this.
I earned this because I learned
What it means to be black.
It is not a color,
Or the lies we tell each other
That we are here for one another,
But envy will cut a person’s throat
To get what they have,
That they earned, because they learned
What it means to black.
Taking short cuts leads to a short life,
So try learning the lesson
Instead of stealing and defining black
In your misguided terms.
Black is you; black is me.
Black is in everything we see, we hear, we touch, we speak, we know,
And from black we will grow into the persons we are meant to be,
But black is not a color.
It is the spirit, the history, the mystery, the misery;
It is the fury, the peace, the promise, and the hope
That lies deep within everyone’s soul.
No, black is not a color.
Black is beautiful, and black is love.
©2012 Talya Chatman
Thanks Talya!
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