The Fake Black Woman ( Living a lie)

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…

123sd

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Author: AfroetryC

I am an African woman and a mother to a precious little angel. I love to use the term "Afro-floetic Queen" mostly to describe my poetry and my roots. I love poetry...art, soul music and inspirational bits of knowledge to offer advice and counseling to those who need it. I can be very witty, straight forward but fun. Ha. ha... A colorful perception of the world - expressed in my poetry. I want to inspire people with my Poetry...give them hope, while also advising them. Life is a learning process and i am happy when one of my pieces directly affects or inspires one of my readers. Let's take a detour around experience, and let me fill your minds with sweet poetic juices.... Note: Just changed my user name from FloetryC to AfroetryC because the latter is more personal and describes my Spoken Word Poetry better.

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