I understand my darkness may never go away.
I carry it as a shadow…everyday.
Little is the fluctuation between the fair hair and the red skin.
Yet, there is no difference between the thin.
The thin line between love and hate.
My road is forever rocky…never straight.
I saw the kiss by Michael Sam..
It made me mad–he kissed a man!
That’s something I don’t want to see
It’s wrong, unnatural, and it’s not just me.
Many now say, “Homosexuality is OK.”
But God says there’s a better way.
He made men for women, and women for men.
So why are “gays” so prideful then?
Please, no public same-sex kisses, Michael Sam.
We don’t want to see this man-on-man! […]
I do not mean to pick a fight
When I say most Blacks don’t think homosexuality’s a “civil right.”
Far from a “right,” Michael. In fact, it’s wrong.
Must I put this in a song?
Michael shot back: “Not wrong at all, it’s who I am!
“I’m gay. My name is Michael Sam.”
“God made me black and blessed me with gayness.”
Blessed you?! Then why are so many diseases linked to “sex” in the anus?
No, God made you black–not ‘gay,’” said I.
“You’ve chosen to believe a lie!”
You can’t change your skin color, that’s a fact.
But homosexuality? That’s only an act. peter labarbera
Love had overflowed onto my pride.
A black hat, as well as, my black sheep bravado…
blew out from under a tattered sleeve on a fresh laundry wind.
Both flew so high, I never thought of seeing them again.
Until now I had carried them for years, with ease.
Tucked under a set of skeleton keys.
With a fistful of reservation, I gave all to the lovely breeze.
The black, a newly discovered multi colored ease of purpose and…the set of hand me down keys.
The three, set in a vast array of self discovery.
Butch, and filled with piss and vinegar, these new accommodations nearly brought me to my knees.
Love had spilled upon my pride.
All those years of ‘no place left to hide’…supplemented by love.
Replacing all my darker sides.
It is not an egregious act.
I am just taller than most.
Forever, looking over the tops of heads.
Now, that I am older…
I chew less on the lies fed.
A straight diet of bigger, bulkier, not better.
‘You could look nicer. Why don’t you try a prettier shade of blue?
All these questions about…girls…! Well, they’ll put an end to that in parochial school.’
‘You could be so pretty…’
Plastic confessions by society’s tools.
Occasionally, yesterday’s key opens today’s door.
A quick glance in the mirror.
A glance into the past.
A glance at age…reflected in the glass.
Father Time had once delivered me to my own evil.
As I wipe away the steamy debris, I see a woman made image.
So, I forge ahead.
Turning a blind eye to man-made deceit.
Note to self, there is nothing strange in the mirror.
IT is just me.
Note to self, there is nothing different in the mirror…
IT is me.
To the reliance of reflection I see.
Thus, what of the transformation into an iron cross of discovery?
Un-anchored spirits from forbidden doorways.
Youthful were the vestiges I held to the light.
Now they are only recollections of disappointed blasphemy.
How true these reflections in me?
How honest can the hues be?
Could not account for the strolls around…
the Good News Bible.
Revelations dripped prosperity.
However grappling were the allegations on the pages in between.
The blotted ink left simple transference of someone else’s insecurity.
What honest there had been left to reflect upon?