Three short poems.
~(The reasons I feel pretty)~
I don't put on makeup, except for Halloween,
And rarely wear anything but jeans.
Fashion doesn't buy my clothes,
It's not about how much skin I expose.
Because my momma raised me right,
Cos when she tucked me in at night,
I was young, impressionable,
She called me beautiful, and it was so.
Because I turn heads when I open my mouth,
And not when I bend over.
Because my outsides don't
determine whether or not I'm clever.
And you know I want a woman or man
Who appreciates that I am who I am
And I am not what I look like.
~(This is getting old)~
You can talk about pimpin', bitch slappin' and drugs,
Make yourself another faceless, disposable thug.
Because god knows I haven't heard that story before,
'My mom and dad were mean and my girlfriend's a whore'.
Go tell it to somebody who doesn't believe
That you're exactly who you make yourself to be.
A gun-toting statistic, a corpse, or a soldier,
A no one on the streets, a hobo, a poser.
Or you can tell me your worth, sing me your song,
It's hard to sound weak if your voice is strong.
And yes, that's a challenge, to all you rappers out there.
I've heard it all before, now tell me why I care.
~(Again)~
I know a young man,
his name is Sudan.
He's thin cos he's poor, he never eats well.
Lately, I've watched him go through hell.
Boy's got a gimp leg,
His rude crutch is called 'aid',
and it comes secondhand from Red Cross.
He's looking for something he lost.
Had his stomach pumped for oil,
now his body's poisoned soil,
eaten away by HIV.
Soldiers burned down all his trees.
Darfur's too broken to support him anymore,
He leans heavy on his aid, but everyday hurts more.
His heart broke like the promise
to his sister, Rwanda,
"Never again".