What Do I Call Me?
They call me black,
For the way God blended me of earthly tones and this preconceived outrageous notion.
But the last time I checked I'm not drained of color.
If anything, I'm the watercolor stains sprayed across gray havoc-filled high school hallways,
Where incessant monotonic drones try to smother my melody and harmony.
They call me white,
For the tone in my voice and for the way my body speaks.
But the last time I checked I paint a smile on my face and pretend that they don't bother me;
So wait, wouldn't that make us the same?
Because we all pretend.
See, that's what I used to say to myself, and that's why it was okay.
Back then I was just worry about keeping myself afloat in a river of life,
Where the furture was murky and it was polluted with obstacles.
They call me black and they call me white,
But what do I call me?
Why should I wear a mask when I can't characterize it?
Why should I be prim and routine
When I can run wild with the generation of freedom and mystery?
See, I don't call myself anything but the name I was given,
And to know who I am really requires them to look closer.
I'm black, yes, but look into the eye holes of the door and you'll see
Where colors cascade and rhapsodies hum hallelujahs.
They'll hear the syncopated beat of a dancer's heart,
And they'll ride the never ending staffs on which a musician's mind travels
like a spiral stairway heaven bound.
They'll taste the sweetness of an optimistic heart,
Coated with powdered sugar fairy tales of illuminated romance.
They'll see the visions of a writer, an artist, a geek, a woman.
All of these just labels under the original title of the written text,
And it's called Kyla.