Poetry: Some Colors Look Like This.


Black is not a colour
It is a void begging to be filled
It is the yearning wishing to be fulfilled
It is the hopeful glance from my eyes

Black is not a colour after all
It is velvet covering of my skin
It is the mirage on the tar on a sunshine day
It is the miracle of a people struggling to survive

I know red is the fire in my eyes
Green, the creativity of my womb,
Blue, the stupidity that brews in my heart
And I know
Black is not a colour after all .

Mirror me please
Let the light in the mirror please cease
Meet with the wit of melanin
Fit into this picture coloring
This is a line…a lineage reflecting
Black is in the white deflecting
Capture free
Shutter me
Please release this fine tapestry
Into light. Perfect this mirror art
Tell tales that plots will plan against
To mirror me
In this mirror i see
Let the light in the mirror please cease
Meet with the wit of melanin
Fit into this picture coloring
Of elite blackness.

Oh where do men come from?
I have asked the ground so many questions
I even went to the grave to wake wisdom.
Where do such men come?
Those ones who only touch the scepter,
and induce sweet redemption.
Those ones whose words are white on a black tile,
who pluck only two lillies in a field of flowers.
Where did such a man come from?
A man tall into the heaven
whose smile heals the sickness of the dead.
He touched the lives of some bearded men
and put them out of misery.
He knows how to style with the earth
and makes a new art.

This woman just dey form inception with sleep,
she no go wake pursue this mess wey I mess.
Shit dey worry me tire
like say I chop Ewa, dodo and bolè.
My hand don weak like pass this week.
Make I raise nyash small mess.
Maybe wind go blow am comot sleep from this eye.

Melanin filled canvas
A background so pure
Oiled to reflect,
The skin that paints me;
The new beautiful
A voice now rising
A shine on my darkness

For a race with
Back on ground
It defines a people with spirit undying
True; black lives matter

This reminds me of you and someone else.
White found a sweet replacement
That concealed all uncertainties and my fears.
But this doesn’t even define you.

This reminds me of Abi,
She was the arrow of God;
The war that was never fought,
She lived but chose the path of death.
And this was not her story for your eyes.

This reminds me of home.
Oh! City painted with gold!
Slave that will house our master!
It is where my heart will belong!
But this cannot be without you.

This reminds me of the beginning and end;
Of days I can cry and laugh,
Lifting spirits and casting hope.
I know so much for I know little,
And this changes very little.
So, this reminds me of someday.

This reminds me of black,
This reminds me of me.


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