I met a black woman, a wild flower whose presence
told a beautiful history now passed on from generations.
A fleecing beauty whose ethnicity is a proof of that
melanin on her skin. Beautiful silky hair she wore,
must have been Brazilian or Indian.
An admiration with each turn of the gushing wind,
attention she sought, attention she got for a shiny
under the happy sun, for this hair is not her own.
A smooth beautiful skin to grace- like buttery chocolate
or perhaps nutella but even through those lines lay closed
patches of uneven skin tones on the knees and ankles-
like an old Christmas tree decoration which are now effects
of fake tan and years wasted using bleaching creams.
Beautiful curves she bore- a shape that would make
the sons of the soil gape like a mutated hyena
drop on their knees- chase the wind with each sway.
A waist trimmed down through each sway and
a cleavage provoking thoughts of men both young and old.
Yet through those lines now covered with Victoria’s secrets,
lay silicone additions on her boobs and butt enhancements
a beauty enhancement now almost an illusion lost through
Authentic Ass Augmentation Syndrome (AAAS).
Her glories dawned with each word she said as she spoke with ease,
battling her fake eye lashes with also lay clumped by additions
swinging her head showing attitude like a praying mantis.
She twisted her tongue to speak in a different accent as
she run her fingers now adorned with acrylic nails with
funky airbrush designs that would make you wonder
how she cleans her cooch. Running her fingers in and out of
that touch of shiny silk, a witch’s embrace through those long nails
Skimpy dresses and skirts, a lot of cleavage and booty, for she must
grace the club, front like a bitch, drop it like it’s hot, stunt on the poles
and flash in front of disrespectful men- ratchet-a stereotype she’s become.
She spoke of celebrities she has dated, places she has visited, and a lifestyle
now hidden through cheap layers of make-up, re-designed cheap
clothing and a polished salon car.
She drew images of a paradise with each daunting look at the ground
as she cursed the dust, complained of the food and weather,
yet the furthest she’d gone is the airport.
Quickly running her claws through her I pad, she talked of twitter, instagram and
asked me to follow her.
She must have been named Diana but somehow she’s “Dy anna pweety”.
Her native town she refuses to acknowledge, a culture she distances from.
A house filled with packs of take out, empty alcohol bottles,
empty condom wrappers and cigarettes. She can’t even cook or
do laundry. Stained teeth now juggling through an accent she
must have learned after months of watching movies.
An identity she has caressed over years, a culture that once
graced the Beautiful black Woman now stashed and buried.
Our Ancestors must weep as the true black woman takes a detour
to extinction and braces another identity, disrespecting and trashing her culture.
Now a silent soliloquy told in the streets- shamed by a receding hair line,
patches on her beautiful skin, botched body parts, pieces of regret,
shreds of pain and disappointment bleeding from her skin.
Now a sad cancer tale for a fake identity she caressed.
A life lived in turmoil…