When I was younger,
I would always hear the tales of white people,
Conquering all things great.
When I would ask about the black,
I would always be told,
That they were slaves.
That they were beaten,
And forced to work without consent.
But I would always ask,
Hoping for a new answer,
Only to end with the same.
So after a while,
I became tired of asking.
I became tired of being hurt.
I became tired of being told,
That there was nothing good about my heritage.
But most of all,
I was tired of being black.
So as time passed,
I kept feeling like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe.
I soon learned of a man,
Who felt the same way I did.
He was half capeverdian, and black.
He loved having a side that was exotic,
And hated the side that was so plain.
But After a while,
He learned that black was beautiful.
So because of him,
To this day I am still learning,
That black always has been,
Always will be,
And always is...beautiful.