Black Queen

She does not sit on a throne

But that doesn’t mean she isn’t deserving of one

 

She does not wear a crown, but her head of hair

is as beautiful as gold and as soft as silk

It curls and spirals down her built shoulders

 

The robe she wears is made of strength

and flows down on her children’s dreams

She wears it with pride and a mother’s glee

 

She is a queen

 

Brown eyes that see all

She knows when her children lie and hide

their secrets from her

 

She is beautiful

 

With her dark skin and deep voice

that commands attention but does not demand

for someone else’s acceptance—she is her own woman

 

She is tired

 

Ten kids and a working husband

College and endless graduations on her hands

Her rough, hardworking—mother hands.

 

She is a tired black Queen

 

Whose royalty is derived from the

laughter of her kids and the call of her name

“Mommy”

 

 

The stress wears at her heart

The endless hours and lack of sleep

But she has a smile on her lips

as she teaches her kids about life

 

She is my mother

and she is my queen

I live my life looking up to her

Loving her and thanking her

 

My tired black Queen.

 

This poem is about: 
My family

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