Your skin speaks for you; it speaks loud, Devoid of color, a deadly sign, That your destiny's destined for demise. You stand ugly, next to the flock, Your features are a warning bell; the devil's mark, shut doors and a frozen clock, And your every wrong step is evidence, That they exercise, in not shooting you down, benevolence, Out of the goodness of their painted skins.
They cry about the beauty of difference, Yet your difference is different; it's a grievance, Don't you know your way's been predicted, apprehended, Your inevitable doom, by the words of some colour-blind fools? You did not ask to be faced with their frowns, When your odd frame stood too short for their inherited golden crowns, You did not wish to be labeled a disgrace, Or against your will, become a symbol; a story to recall, to advise on some cheap mistake.
In a field of white, you've been rejected. You long to feel accepted, but they said stay away, you're infected; Infected with their ideals, infected with their hate, maybe, Who decides that white is unblemished, That black can't be warmth, can't be kindness, can't be loyalty? You do not need to paint yourself white, To win that race or lose that fight, For the whole flock gazes up at the same sky, And the sun and the moon and the twinkling of the night; Does it really matter, when the day ends, if your coat's a little less light?
Isn't that the truth, that when the dusk falls, Colors and voids look the same, stripped down to a man's choice? When the darkness settles, it won't be clear, the color of your skin, But the strength of your voice will ring out; your choices, and your inborn spirit.
You stand separate from the crowd.
Your skin speaks for you, it speaks loud; Muddy with endurance, and hardened by strife, They tried to break you, but the damage merely made you wise; Wise enough to know you could live just as well as them, stuck on your side of the tracks, Though they stand pristine and polished, And you stand alone, laden with cracks.