EXHAUSTED
I thought I’d be done writing poems. About how Black Lives Matter, Because everyone would just know. They would see my skin and see God, How I was created in His image. As bronze as His Son. See how every color in the crayon box was beautiful and had a purpose. Yet I find the black and brown ones still sharp. Or perhaps dull, From the constant abuse of life. Exhausted from writing I can’t breathe. Pained how everyone seems to get a second chance besides people that look like me. Maybe it’s because white don’t show on paper. So they tend to look past their mistakes. Being careful not to step on their lives, I mean lines. I feel broken. Numb from begging for equality. From waiting on a change. Thankful that half of me can still write my story. Maybe we’d be better apart? Ready to pack my things and leave Egypt. To a land flowing with milk and honey. Where maybe then I won’t be exhausted....