This skin is not black, your eyes are, why should I be persecuted because you choose to live in darkness, blinded by your hearts blackness.
This skin is not black, your guns are, slave masters in blue, bullets whipping the life from use and shackling us into deaths eternal slumber.
This skin is not black, but I'm sorry you don't know the different shades of brown, sorry that we instill the fear of God in you so much so that you mistake yourself for him, reigning his judgment down in the form of death, sorry that God gave us his sun kissed graces and for some reason it angers your pale faces.
This skin is not black, your mind is, because something is different you define "it" as diminutive, brand "it" primitive, because your mind draws a parallel between skin and what's within..
If our blood being red is not enough, at least find solace in the fact that souls have no race, if not I will because after we die your bias has no place.
chilli
 1500
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This skin is not black
CATEGORY
life
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COMMENTS
after vision says: my poet, you have delivered the truth to us all with the depths of this |
OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY chilli
UntitledDon't believe me when I say that I love you, when I look into the deep of your eyes, turn my head to the side and smile, rest my palm on your cheeks, and with all the honesty I muster tell you that you're the most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on. Don't trust me. I don't know what love is, I thought I did once, but I couldn't even point it out if it hit me on my face, With Cupids biggest baddest arrow. I know hearts, not mine but yours, I know how to resonate to it's beat, compose the right words for its song, move in unison with its rhythm. I know how it functions, which part belongs where, how to put it all together long enough for me to tear it all apart. All the while you thinking that it's love...that we are more than you and me, that we're us. Don't ask me about love, I will lie with the most gorgeous, genuine, heartfelt smile you've ever laid eyes on. I think I forgot what beautiful meant a ways back, I dont think ...  |
This skin is not blackThis skin is not black, your eyes are, why should I be persecuted because you choose to live in darkness, blinded by your hearts blackness. |
soSo, your hair. So your hair peaks around every corner like the sun, dawn every time you walk in my direction, golden fire in every strand. It's growing on me, figuratively, but literally much like it grows on you. Your smile. Your smile shines much like a full moon, not bright but beautiful, your laugh different staccatos of lazy happiness, joyfully crescendos of glee. Your skin glistens like Arabian deserts, smooth, golden and never ending, it is infinity. Your eyes. Beauty lies within the eyes of the beholder , and it's captured somewhere in the essence of your gaze. Your eyes look like pearly gates to the precious that God placed in your mind. And your mind is an incline I'd like to conquer, the unknown I'd like to explore, I wanna dip my hand in your memory and return with the secrets of your soul. Your hands look like they perform kitchen miracles, look good to hold, look prepared for molding, the future. You are the morning, and I love watching the sunrise.<... |
The 11th HourIn the 11th hour the meek sleep, but there are those that delight in the night, those that have grown accustom to darkness and its vulgarity, those that party. In the 11th hour, there are those that are in tune with the moon, whose feet dance to house music while at home mother waits alone, in agony and their bed lies empty. In the 11th hour speakers boom while bodies gyrate in unison to the beat, while the meek watch reruns of game of thrones season 5. In the 11th hour, the meek go wild, engage their minds in novels that blow their brains but the girls are more into blowing other guys minds. In the 11th hour she shall set the dance floor on fire, but in the morning what will be left of her but ash, she would have danced all her freedom away, danced all her beautiful self to waste, danced until no dance was left to dance, until no fire was left to burn, no beat was present to move, to groove. She dances her silly self into obscurity, danced her way into the sheets of her s... |
Dear Post modern CivilizationDear post modern civilization, now is a good time,now is eternal, now has never been better. I think it's the people here, have you ever seen their smiles, heard their laughter echoing like wind chimes in autumn. They walk with the swagger of tomorrows hope, of possibility, their creed You only live once, there's no fun in eternity. Earth is a one time deal so we enjoyed it while we were still above ground, when the sand still held us steady, before the hunger of death engulfed us we were happy. Dear post modern civilization we enjoyed the days we spent alive, we enjoyed summer, when the sun peaked over the hills like your one and only in the covers. winter was the season for lovers, bodies fused like heart and soul only death could separate them, on those cold windy nights. Spring was all butterflies, it told the story of the birds and the bees, budding leaves on trees, and exposed legs them thighs and knees, all the way through the calf to the ankles, spring was happiness. Autum... |
I Am No PoetI am no poet, I am no slithering wordsmith sensually scintillating the senses of your mind, my words are shallow, the random conjugation of senselessly sentences making sense of subliminal metaphors and similes savagely scraping shackled ankles of those that are slaves to poetry. I am no poet, I am no sweet talking honey tongued sentient slowly submerging my thoughts into yours subliminally, slowly giving you parts of me, hoping somebody somewhere coherently combines the components and will be able to tell me who me is. I am no poet, I'm just broken my words are just shards of a me I haven't been able to fix yet, a puzzle I'm not able to solve yet, clues to a me I haven't found yet. I am no poet, I am no sharp minded philosophical phenomenon, I am not to be, I am that tree that falls in the forest with nobody to hear, I speak when there's nobody to listen. I am no poet, I just use bigger words than you, hoping you will snap your fingers in an attempt to break the shell o... |
Forbidden FruitIt makes sense that evil first entered through a woman's lips, and you know all food goes straight to her hips. No wonder many men could trade their souls for a piece of her eden. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but his daughters are still hanging...like many fathers he doesn't want to let go, afraid that the world will strip them from their innocence and they will know their nakedness and I'm afraid these cities are no Edens, these concrete gardens have no where to hide, no leaves to cover up the parts left in sight. On the eve of birth no wonder mothers feel pain when they deliver, because he thinks back to when the serpent deceived her. She has become a bag of skin, nothing more nothing less, guess that's what happens when people only see sin, she is forbidden fruit people seldom see the good in her, they never see the knowledge in her, they can't see past her eyes, men's vision stops at her thighs, these vultures all they want is her virtue, they scavenge over... |