Bitterness by Stephen A. Dantes

I am not black, I just look that way;
Her colour has a chrome sparkle in the sun and yet inside her,
to deny one’s origin and be as stratified as her birth-land allowed her,
she claims all races within but the blackness that’s outside her,
on a skin tense as melanin disgusts pride, the
same blackened-ness slapped on a soul that defines her,
she feels more refined with a definition of freedom that’s whiter than the shame that describes her,
or the beauty denied her.

I am not poor she says,
I just live that way;
She digs her hand into the pits of her hunger,
her fingers run against her skin as a metaphor becomes real,
an insatiable thirst for the waters of hope begs her to kneel
but she refuses to fall to her knees to a God who made her into an image far from what she considers ideal.
She becomes fearless,
with the coldness of a summer’s day as ironic as the blackness of a winter’s night,
nights where skin should beg to be strangled to existence
is as hot as the uneasiness that overcomes when she thinks of hell and its unquenchable fire;
her hell being the sadness that has become her life,
the madness that has befallen,

I am not sure, she says
But you can say so;
Say that I’m the epitome of beauty or say nothing at all
I have seen ages of triumph, and blood, and darkness, and sorrow, and promise from the girth of those that wield swords in the name of liberation,
in the name of a tomorrow where shadows become holographic symbols created by psychotic minds of probability,
I stand in the shadows of those who came before me,
Those who drank from the rivers that flowed through the valleys of wickedness and malice whilst the source of the upstream remained in the hands of those who sought to manipulate history
Say that I’m anything but black, anything but poor, anything but ghetto, anything but bookie, anything but a fool, anything but a poor lost soul,
for I am more whole than you can ever be cause I can now see through the blindfolds you have craftily placed around my head
as you try not only to silence me
but to imprison my mentality

I am what I should be
Let my bitterness drive me
Either to recreate myself
Or to simply accept myself

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