Crayola Days

I am a woman of no skin color;
my ethnicity – my own.
Looked down upon as a minority
because I refuse to fall face
and conform.
The majority claims to inform,
but all my life all they’ve
done is distort
because they thrive
on static and gray.
Noticing this back
in my pre-school days.
Memories with my schoolmates
playing with play-dough;
I don’t remember their
skin color though.
See, back then
I was a kaleidoscope
full of hope and ease.
Everything was colorful
and my world free.
I saw colors
of Purple-Mountain-Majesty.
Not yet been introduced
to the rules of society.
Grew up in the suburbs
where actions of change
are never heard,
and the skin color
white is preferred.
The masses colorblind,
and inside I could never
comprehend
why they didn’t
see the sun as
Laser Lemon.
Scared of change
because in Suburbia it’s
forbidden.
Instead, they live
in shades of black and white.
In a Rose Art box
you can find them.
Not me.
I have chosen
to live in my own
colorful sea because
what’s life without
Macaroni and Cheese?
My mind-set
of those pre-school days
inspires me to explore
my race.
I define myself
for me.
Color is what
I love to see
mixing and blending
infinitely.
I am a woman
of no one skin color.
I am rare.