Poetry Teaches in Color

Poetry teaches me to observe the world,

admire the array of colors it is painted in,

analyze how they interact, and speak up during scenarios when colors aren’t mixing. 

Some colors have a complicated past and have a hard time sharing a canvas, such as white.

Often being the first color you notice, it can become anxious when introduced to other colors.

When White sees Black,

White fears Black might turn them purple or red so they call Blue.

Blue, already coloring out Black as “guilty!”, ready to blur the lines of silver and gold. 

Poetry teaches about biases through personal experiences.

Teaches me our differences 

See Black and Blue don’t draw the same.

Black has a fine point for ease like a colored pencil, coloring inside the lines, careful not to spill over and cause murky spots on the page.

Black knows not to embarrass 

or talk out of turn.

See Blue draws like a broken crayon

Muddy and abrasive. 

So intense it stains.

It commands your attention and takes over deciding the fate of the painting without giving Black a chance to add its value to the master peace.

Blue has authority, which means Black can’t speak up, stand up for their life

Can’t lay on the table alone or it might cause too much suspicion, leading Blue to spill red.

Poetry teaches me constantly that every voice that is silenced is a voice I need to write for, perform the struggles for others so the world may have a better understanding.

Understand marginalized people aren’t scary just misguided sometimes, scared that the world has gave up on them. 

Scared of what happens when we speak up against injustices

Blue often breaks Black.

Constantly melting away Blacks identity.

Black has never belonged in this world of color, as if it’s use of shading isn’t important.

It ain’t wanted after rainy days

Blue and White believe Black brought the rain 

Like mixing Blue and White doesn’t turn the sky grey 

I’m tired of erasing tears shed for Black

Out cast of the rainbow, seems inclusion stops before making its way to Black 

Black isn’t suppose to color. . . just exist.

As if Black doesn’t absorb and reflect light and create radiant shades of Brown.

I’m  writing for Black when they feel too weak to write on their on.

When they forget that they are the most important part of the page, because without Black there is no written poetry .

Whether loud and bright or dull and gloomy. 

Poetry much like colors has taught me to be the light of the shadowed.

Front and center for the outcast crayons that don’t get pick to fill in the coloring book.