We talk of how the pen is mightier than the sword.

So why does the ink in my skin continue to be cut by the whit-hot blade of racism?

My hair is black as vanilla bean.

My skin and eyes are dark brown like old African trees.

My soul is black with the ink I use to write my story.

So my pen may be mightier than the sword,

But if I wrote in the blood of my people, they might finally be able to read the words on the page.

This poem is about: 
Our world



this is amazing, and i'm sorry to find the truth in your words. but your not wrong, the pen is mightier than the sword

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