March 8, 2008
By Shelby Ross, Hilliard, OH

Chipped bowls and bro ken saucers
Scratched pans, dented plastic cups
Why do we keep breaking?
Aren’t we already bro ken enough?

White plates on one side
Blacks on the other
We keep d i v i d i n g
What the hell’s wrong with eachother?

Forks and spoons don’t touch no more.
Alls that matters is the color. [We’re] Opal forks.
Those spoons aren’t allowed to speak with us—they white
How does this even work?

I’ll tell ya one thing:
It doesn’t.
Tell ya another thing:
I’m a big black knife
I’m a really nice person
But they don’t care what you got inside

On the inside I know this is wrong
I know all this madness must stop
I’ve got brains, I know stuff. But I’m Black
Therefore, I cannot talk

I hate it all because
Of everything. Of everyone. Separ atin’ us.
I miss it when things were old
When my sharp black blade didn’t get left in the sink


I’m an outsider now
That’s what they say.
Tellin me I’m black.
And white is the way

I just don’t get it
We’re all in the same world I think
We’re all people
Even though we got some ki nks

Things are different
I liked them the old way I think
Cuz if we are all people,
Why are we in different sinks?

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book