I am crossing the street,

People walk by staring at me,

Is it my skin that they see?

They walk on one side,

With disgust they cringe at me,

Is it my skin that they see?

Their noses lifted so high,

When I walk by,

Is it my skin that they see?

I mean they have judged me before,

Because I look this way,

Is it my skin that they see?

Or maybe my accent,

Or where I was born,

That makes them believe,

That they are better than me,

In a store,

Women’s purses zipped real tight,

Afraid that I might steal tonight,

Is it my skin they see?

But is it fear,

Or ignorance,

That they feel towards me,

Am I not white,

Or dark enough,

To fit into this society

To sit here silently,

In a world looking down on variety.