My Skin

I’ve been conditioned into thinking I am no good, 

A tarnished treasure that will be eternally overlooked.  

Taught to think that my hair, my crowning glory, in its natural state should be masked, 

When ancient queens who originated in Africa wore theirs with no remorse. 

I’ve been told to be dark is to be dirty,  

Contradicting the empowerment of our people.  

I’ve been cast aside, counted out and left behind because of my complexion,  

Giving me a complex that my black ISN’T beautiful.  

Until one day, a voice spoke unto me and said  

Don’t fret my child, 

For your beauty is something only the wise can see.  

You cannot conform,  

Your skin is black, but comely.  

Look at your hair, it grows upward, escaping gravity.  

Your skin, although it is scarred, is walking calligraphy, 

The color of life-bearing soil that covers the Earth, 

Ensuring our people that they can still march on…