I’d visited Frankfurt to meet up with a poet I have only known through social media, yet has been like a brother for several years. This was the 3rd and final poem from my writing session.
Eyes of giants are wandering.
Aviators reflecting on the ground.
Beauty seems skin tight,
Fashionistas mix colours yet can’t do it with skin type
Flowing locks and optics box tick.
I just can’t with the lens being pedalled.
A fresh breeze invades the mood.
To settle the stomach, I engage with windbreakers and stone masons.
I was a fool for lane love ignoring the map.
The cupboard love from Venus is the most fly of traps.
It’s time to switch the raps, worship and praise at new altars.
Maybe you will…..for the sake of our true calling.
I was born with the race card
According to some inhumans
Black power was never skin colour
Sus laws and Edgar Hoovers
Set the tone for my mother’s mother
My father’s father took the bruises
I was born to a game of measures
I suppose my first words were excuses
The race card I never signed, played for me.
You expect me to thank you?
Doesn’t the devil exist?
Black and white stripes aren’t even half the pack of this race card mess.
Is it really a Race Card?
Or is it a gag, a muffler.
Is the code for silence, when it impinges on comfort?
I was told at aged 7 by a white headmistress,
“Just to be average, you blacks have to work twice as hard”
Damn, I just got stamped and handed my race card!
I should build up some credit.
You’ll only teach the 5% of my history that implies to you I’m indebted.
Then I’ll spend the rest of my life fact checking.
There’s just something about the way they use it to abuse you
Like it’s your first and only line of defence.
Before they learn the N word it’s, Miss…he’s playing the race card again!
Micro chipped, programme to speak on it every other day of the week.
Is the race card simply a construct where the foundations are too deep.
Was I really born with it in my system or was it the system’s cordial
Something they can keep drinking to make me look primordial.