the bud of the bud

why
do
i never

see my face on television

just a blurred obscure smudge
brushed across the flickering screen
like it was a saturated towel
wiped through blood
mud

just a streakof
		humanity...

a colour that you can change the light on
and make into a different shade,

a piece of puddy
made of clay




i only see me as they see me pouring tea bowing out of respect for the great power that is whiteness that holy quality the colour of death. i am always laughing politely at their impoliteness... because it is always so funny when everyone around you is smiling, if even inside there is a disagreement a knowing a reality apart from the appearance a disobedient adherence a glowing / a shining undermining

the truth: that in the bud of the bud & the root of the root on the tree of life i'm low hanging fruit.

As people of colour, it is essential that we remember we are not the boxes that society contains us in. We are more than our actualizations, we are also our potential. Some of us are never told that we can do great things – so we must do them. We need to believe more than we’re told. We need to use our imaginations to guide us into a future of equality, and to use our minds and wills to grow it in the present, from a seed to a tree to a forest.

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