He Was Black

When I first took pen in hand, I decided I'd like to write. A poem about a man, who's black, But my life was always white. I've never lived in a Ghetto Where each day is the same as the last. Where the people have no future, And would rather forget their past. And I've never watched my Father try to smile with a tear stained face. to hide the fact there was no work again, Simply because of his race. And I've never heard my Mother Whisper a silent prayer As she dressed me for my first day at school, And sent me off in fear. Fear of other children And the cruel things they would say. Things she knew would stay with me, Forever and a day. No I have never had to try to prove myself to man, and I have never had to cry because of the makers hand. I've always had the choice, To do just what I like, But would that choice have been as easy If my skin had not been white A poem about a man, who's black, I guess I cannot write For it's hard to know the way he'd feel, Because my skin is white. I can't brag about my colour, Or hold my head up high. I can only remember a phrase that fits, But by the grace of God go I. My thoughts about colour are running out, And there's not much left to say. But I pray that yours soul is as white as your face, when it comes Judgment day. <<< Cal Bambi "The word artist ©riginal >>> I paint pictures with words. calbambi@gmail.com