Thanks, I appreciate it!

I was born

a blank canvas free of irrationalities and any mental poisons
I grew to learn and memorize guidelines, regulations and barriers society noises in all of our ears
Over the years I took it upon myself to take what was once a deteriorating mental state
And revert back to my purity, of which I was initially given,
And with that, I found something that tied me back to the world of which I once grew to hate; the world of which we live in
Through images I paint, metaphorically and literally, I found a way to deviate from pain,
Love life, and strive to eliminate the strain

I was born a blank canvas,  but it’s my destiny I choose to create
A right which I think somehow in my mind began to fade,
It’s now alive and well enticing me to be and create something of great virtue
My environment is the mural which my peers revert to create, 
and somehow destroy at the same time too
Now that the pen is in my hand, my job is to add a piece that is to stay
A piece that is too great to ever write over, draw over or mark in any way
My life has become something through art I learned to appreciate

I was born a blank canvas, Over time I’ve collected dust
And markings that have been difficult to take away completely
There remains a faint residue of imperfection, a worn surface that has been misplaced and shoved repeatedly

I was born a blank canvas
Now I’m a classic mural on the wall
Telling a story of timelessness, and dare I say beauty,
That I hope captures you all

(Source: hasako)

This adaptation
millions of my mothers and fathers before me had taken

from inhabiting the land that, I can imagine,
(from pictures I see in National Geographic,)
is filled with rough terrain, and is also brittle grass laden
And hovering over, smoldering heat from the sun
That something in their blood begun
to sprout like verses free of premeditation
going in each and every direction
protecting the top of their head  
That thing they knew would protected them,
underneath the sun rays splitting through the ozone,
was their hair… like a coarse, dark brown halo
 
I feel the strain, the sort of pain that my strands
that grow to protect me, similar as they did them,
hurt my feelings more then they protect.
like what has evolved into society’s idealized beauty
I can’t manage, I cant fit it, not truly
That’s how i feel
I’m saying,

I preen, I pull
I cry, at times
I don’t understand
but when I do, the loving feel
flows like
that idea 
millions of my mothers and fathers implemented in
their blood,
that lead them to,
verses, free of premeditation
and ultimately, that protection
they adapted to by living
under the sun and heat that was unforgiving

Though I feel it most when I get that
“wild hair” to, at times, when the weather is mild
I let this halo of mine shine
and  free from detergents
but I
feel the deterrent
naturally, my natural-ity
makes me feel too free.
I want to say it’s ignorant and it’s way too ironic to be.
like, if I let it run loose and get caught and be nappy for all the world to see
I’d be sticking it to the society I protest against, exactly how I at times
feel I should be
but instead, I cant grasp that pride whole heartedly.

what was a means in which to survive
too many times
I’ve translated it into another element of vanity
in vain i’ve believed
like I told you
I pull, I preen
but something about it always seems to make me feel
too ‘practical’
is this the verse from mom and dad echoing, tellin me
to just go natural?

She, who applies all that
MAC 
cosmetics to her eyes
contouring each with a
Satin black line

lining the outer corners to perfection
to  counter the fact that too many
other parts of her life cannot
be as defined
she who cakes it on, just to cry it off

 

Calm your tits

but even they are not sitting right
Small like a little oriental dolls would be
wide set
hips too wide
nothing lovely about them
in my eyes

eyes have too much of a slant
doesnt make sense
because, I’m just black?
It makes sense, look at these
dead folicals stemming from my head
nappy, of course, not soft and everflowing
like my Asian mothers

I’m sorry my appearances confuse you
I know its strange
because I’m confused too
too many round brushes met their maker
in this hair
trying to achieve something of a 
different texture, unachievable
unachieved, i grew up believing it’s just not
fair

Don’t get me started
on my skin
The one thing I wish I was 
comfortable in
most girls cry when they 
grow out of their favorite skinny
jeans
I cry because
I’ve never felt like I fit in
in my own 
black
yellow
white
skin

to stop caring, but to not
let yourself go
the art of being a
woman in control

no fear of
what you already know
diving in the the abyss you once
set up cones around
and caution tape
yet visited when
no one was around
a pool of your thoughts

to stop caring, but to not
let yourself go
the art of being a 
woman in control