My Skin – Poetry from my past

I’m cursed for my skin
I am cursed for my skin
for everywhere I go
the first thing they see
is my skin
and when they see
they can’t seem
to look past
my skin
because it’s my skin
they make it
like my sin
that I was born
with this skin
born of others
with this skin
and they were born of others
and others
with this skin
and the others
were taken from their land
because of their skin
beaten and starved
because of their skin
and that skin becomes scarred
and those scars become cursed
I tell you
I’m cursed for my skin
I am cursed for my skin
but that shouldn’t be
for it’s my skin
and not my sin
it’s my blessing
my skin
it’s my right
my skin
because this skin
is the only skin
I have to live in
I am proud of my skin
I’m proud of my skin
and for those of you
with skin like my skin
don’t hide it in the shade
let it see the sun
our time to lift the curse
has already begun

The Black In My Pen Ink Has Ancestors

Let’s play it your way.
Slavery was a choice, you say?
Black people chose to live this way?
Now, most of us question you like, how sway?
Changing the acronym to fit what would Jay-Z say.
Part of me, in the benefit of the doubt kind of way
Wants to think you mean we need mental leeway
To break perceived chains, make a gateway,
And that will lead us to dreams and a bigger payday.
You can use nigga in the colloquial way
because slaves on plantations heard nigger colloquially every day.
Maybe it all started a similar way
Where skin-kin like you sold us away
But it wasn’t enough for the trans-Atlantic trade
So, they took what they wanted without delay.
Add hundreds of years of being put on display
as nothing more than a free labor buffet.
Perhaps, next, you’ll say black women chose rape
And the way their bodies are still fetishized today.
It’s hard for me to think racism is all hearsay
When security followed me at the mall just the other day
But that doesn’t happen to you, because they know you can pay.
Tell this to those who traveled on the underground railway
Where the free ones went back into the fray
And along the path, they sang and prayed.
Though, with your rhetoric, some might think it was an actual train,
That we handpicked the metal in our chains,
And what the brands on our backs did say.
It’s made up that, back then, you could have been lynched for looking at the president’s daughter the wrong way
Or have a burning cross on your lawn, courtesy of the KKK.
We should get over it, and let you bray.
Ancestors are sleeping dogs that should lay.
“Never forget” should be reserved for hurricanes.
But hey,
I’m happy that you’re being honest today,
And not letting society affect what you have to say
Because it’s not like your freedom of speech came with a price to pay;
When they declared “all men” and “equal,” you weren’t part of that wordplay.
Love and acceptance shouldn’t lead us astray
From all the history that forced us here in the first place.
The only choice was “death before bondage” on the waterway.
And Flint, Michigan, still has no clean water as of yesterday.

-Rose Skye

Love Game – Poetry from my past

love is like a game
that some don’t know how to play
sometimes when its real it lasts forever
sometimes it only lasts one day

some have been in love
maybe once or twice
some have loved much more than that
but they make a very big sacrifice

each time you give a piece of your heart
and also a piece of your soul
you don’t realize it until its completely gone
and others will never even know

but one day it will come the time
for you to find your special one
it will be laughing, crying, caring, sighing
but most of all it will be fun

*Note: this is another poem written between the ages of 10-14. Not one of my best, but I think it’s an excellent example of how my writing and style have changed over time.

About A Girl

We all know
how the story goes,
the Prince or Knight
fixing the damsel’s woes.

She, taught to wait,
by the guarded gates
for the handsome young suitor
to facilitate her escape.

She grooms her long hair,
puffs her singing voice with air,
practices her eyelash flutter,
dolls herself up with care.

In he rides,
on his steed or tides,
to be her hero
and get her to oblige.

For her freedom, a fee.
That is the key.
“Everything has a price,”
he tells her with glee.

That’s not what she read
in stories before bed.
They left out the part
about the price on her head.

Two options exist
equal in their twist.
A choice, she must make.
She cannot resist.

She could stay in her bubble,
avoid all the trouble,
and continue existing
until her prison turns to rubble.

Or, she could submit,
lie there complicit.
Give him the payment.
Sounds simple, but is it?

To surrender her virtue,
accept the promise, “I won’t hurt you,”
obey his commands;
every rule, every curfew.

To belong to him; mind, body, and soul,
from now until she grows old
to pay for her life with her life,
and accept his smile and his scold.

A small voice inside
that could no longer hide
said, “you forget option three
so listen and imbibe.”

In her eyes,
to his surprise,
the damsel’s strength ignites,
suddenly realized.

“I say no to your offer.
I am not your coffer.
I shall reject
all the obvious proffers.”

The handsome man doesn’t like this,
told no by lips he might kiss.
“That’s not how it goes,” he says,
gritting his teeth with a hiss.

“It is now,”
she states tall and proud,
and what she does next
leaves no room for doubt.

The dame grabs his sword,
fights him and the hoard
of make-believe creatures
giving her forced room and board.

To her and everyone’s surprise,
she saw through the fairytale guise.
She sets herself free,
becomes her prize.

She rides off on the steed or seas
after completing the deed,
in search of other damsels,
of different endings, they’re in need.

Throughout every land, she goes
to every bard, her story she’ll disclose
about the damsel braving her distress,
and the status quo to oppose.

Side Effect

the fortress
inside which she sits
was not created to keep
forces of destruction

no dogs wait to attack
no guns line the battlements
no officers stand watch in the towers

no electric fences
no barbed wire

the walls are solid and tall
a handcrafted citadel
not meant to prevent intruders
but to keep the essential parts of her

too many times
she heard she was
too boring
too smart
too loud
too confident

dreaming too big
loving too hard
wanting too much

little does she know
the structure vowing to keep her safe
is twice as successful
at keeping everyone

The Soul and The Stranger – Poetry from my past

a well-known stranger
that goes around from soul to soul


the stranger is hungry
hungry for intimacy


the soul feeds on the stranger

the soul is captures
the stranger has entered
and engulfed
engulfed the entire soul
in the hands of the stranger

now the stranger must choose
to treat well
or treat badly
to stay
or to go

what to do
the stranger doesn’t know


the stranger is frightened
the soul wants the stranger
to stay
the reason unknown


the stranger has to make
a decision

the soul can do nothing
the choice
in the hands of the stranger
the soul must wait


on the word
of a stranger

For You

for me

heed the call
for me

risk it all
for me


have a ball
for me

be small
for me

stand tall
for me


lose your gall
for me

bare it all
for me

against the wall
for me

for me

for me

until I make you bawl
for me


be a screwball
for me

wither wherewithal
for me

to mothballs
for me

the long haul
for me

until they bear palls
for me


for you


are my destiny

Wonder – Poetry from my past

now that I have you
seems like the world wants you
and I wonder

me in your arms
you in my arms
and I wonder

the moon is full
stars bright
you look patiently into my eyes
and I wonder

you whisper in my ear
saying “I love you”
and I wonder

I wonder
if I’m the one you think about before you sleep at night
if I’m the one you really see when you look at me the way you do

while all I do

is sit here and wonder


am I the right one for you


Is my body
a mere distraction?

Does it light up
when you look at it?

Does it make your mouth water
like Pavlov’s dog
with just the bell?

Does it move you to action;
biting your tongue,
and clenching your fists
to stop you from touching?

Do you think it will sing
like a violin
when you stroke your fingers
over its strings?

“Not here?”
“Then where?”
“Too fast.”
“Not enough.”

When you’ve recovered
from the overstimulation
at the mercy of it,
will I count as a lover?

Or just a mere distraction?

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