Don’t confuse this skim-milk white skin bag with truth

These ice-blue eyes, like funeral marching toward the pall

And it’s become time to recognize my whitewashed future

Past it’s expiration date…

And Iroquois mother, swaddle the smallpox description

And in my heart, I’m African – I’m on hunger strike during another

Somalia drought…I am Asian, in my rice-patty home sewing and

Manufacturing for the sinful skin-bags that I am confused for

I am discrimination…felt with fever, 106 and rising…I am Isis on my

Way through the river Styx and I know we’ll hold hands again

Mirror glaze and watch your skin turn gray, your eyes, and the palest blue that death could deliver and see you’re hated by the jihadist. I am the burkah that is refused

For photograph while you, you are the new anti-immigration law

Laid out, giving these American Idiots a right to impregnate the second amendment

And abort what it really means…

I am hope in Baghdad, where hope is lost…while you still smell like

Bombs and arsenal that fell from the skies…

You take shape as the destroyed infrastructures that, so far,

Connects nothing but hate to hate while we recognize

And pray for the dead that left

I am revelation while you live in the past

And I know being hated…my skin, may be as milk-white and white washed

As the upper echelon that fed you with its poison

With its intentions and miscalculations…but inside

I am filled with the colors of the rainbow…the red orange yellow green blue violet that

Shines with my pride

I am my own distinction, and can never be lumped with the

Blinding whiteness that witnesses its pain and segmented distortion

So I say, become African, become Asian, become raga know your strength Iroquois mother

And cover yourself with your pride