Her brown unruly hair
Adorns her head like the mane of a lion.
Her shoulder blades move and grind
Like a tigress biding her time,
Waiting to pounce.
Her long powerful legs not only give her height,
But remind us all
That Tribal blood runs through those veins.
That the ferocity of a powerful warrior
Is preserved in the arch of her cheekbones,
The grace of a queen,
Reflected in the shape of her eyes,
The wisdom of an elder,
In the rawness of her thoughts.
Her café con leche skin glistens
As though it were encrusted with jewels that,
At one time,
Was the prize that stirred the world
To its feet in search of their glint.
She is power.
She is wisdom.
She is light.
But her inner eye has been obscured
With the black storm clouds of deception.
It has been smothered with the ugly scales
Of doubt, fear, and lies.
The world has molded and squeezed her into
The ruts of its machine, because
It couldn't even find a gray resting place
For her uniqueness.
It whispered its mutated theories into
Her ear with its hot breath
Reeking of hate, and jealousy.
"Take some out there, put some in there,
Change the shape of your nose, cut up your hair,
Die it blonde! Straighten your curls,
Try to impress him, dress like those girls,"
it says. And she unwillingly leans in,
succumbing all that she is to its wishes,
convinced that she is helpless.
She ties up her locks in silent shame,
covers up her skin in whispered forgiveness,
and snuffs her own voice it in a vain consideration
for unappreciative ears.
Ask her what you will,
and she will say,
"Whatever."
"I don't care."
She tells the world,
"Do with me what you will,
and I will follow."
And here am I,
just out of reach,
wishing that I could chase away those clouds,
wishing that I could peel those scales off
of her beautiful eyelids,
wishing that I could grab her by the hand,
pull her out of the routine machine,
and lead her to still waters that
will reflect her beauty,
wishing that she would see that
she is power.
She is wisdom.
She is light.
Adorns her head like the mane of a lion.
Her shoulder blades move and grind
Like a tigress biding her time,
Waiting to pounce.
Her long powerful legs not only give her height,
But remind us all
That Tribal blood runs through those veins.
That the ferocity of a powerful warrior
Is preserved in the arch of her cheekbones,
The grace of a queen,
Reflected in the shape of her eyes,
The wisdom of an elder,
In the rawness of her thoughts.
Her café con leche skin glistens
As though it were encrusted with jewels that,
At one time,
Was the prize that stirred the world
To its feet in search of their glint.
She is power.
She is wisdom.
She is light.
But her inner eye has been obscured
With the black storm clouds of deception.
It has been smothered with the ugly scales
Of doubt, fear, and lies.
The world has molded and squeezed her into
The ruts of its machine, because
It couldn't even find a gray resting place
For her uniqueness.
It whispered its mutated theories into
Her ear with its hot breath
Reeking of hate, and jealousy.
"Take some out there, put some in there,
Change the shape of your nose, cut up your hair,
Die it blonde! Straighten your curls,
Try to impress him, dress like those girls,"
it says. And she unwillingly leans in,
succumbing all that she is to its wishes,
convinced that she is helpless.
She ties up her locks in silent shame,
covers up her skin in whispered forgiveness,
and snuffs her own voice it in a vain consideration
for unappreciative ears.
Ask her what you will,
and she will say,
"Whatever."
"I don't care."
She tells the world,
"Do with me what you will,
and I will follow."
And here am I,
just out of reach,
wishing that I could chase away those clouds,
wishing that I could peel those scales off
of her beautiful eyelids,
wishing that I could grab her by the hand,
pull her out of the routine machine,
and lead her to still waters that
will reflect her beauty,
wishing that she would see that
she is power.
She is wisdom.
She is light.