She

Raindrops pour upon her round face,

How she loved the silky splash of Adam’s ale

It cleansed and soothed her soul.

 

Her hair, unbending  from the hot comb

Returned to it’s natural state;

A nappy Lioness, at an exceeding rate.

 

Few laugh, while others stare

At her gigantic fluffy hair;

Responding back, she does not dare

 

She feels a sense of despair,

Growing quicker and quicker,

They whom she thought were her peers,

 

Were the real reason for her tears.

 

Her skin is not pale,

In fact, she is black.

Her eyes not blue;

 

None of it is true.

 

She hates her race

And begins to disintegrate;

For this is not her fate.

 

She used to love the rain,

Until it unveiled the reason for her pain.

Damn, those wet, watery beads.

 

Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
Me

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