She’s wearing a green shirt today
It’s a nice shade on her
Something’s different about her
Maybe it’s the skirt?

He’s devishly smiling
His imagination is concocting a plan
I too had those silly dreams
Before I saw eye to eye with the world

I wonder if she likes another guy
She seems critical
I know I’m imperfect
Is it because my skin color is darker than hers?

He doesn’t know how I once felt
I hid my feelings like a sin
But I don’t regret it
Dreams are for dreamers

She’s shaking a little
I wonder if she’s feeling alright?
She has to be fine for being that perfect
The face of a doll

He handed me paper
The writing holds repetition of lines
Another cruel poem?
Please don’t say it is

“She’s wearing a green shirt today
It’s a nice shade on her
Something’s different about her
Maybe it’s the skirt?

I wonder if she likes another guy
She seems critical
I know I’m imperfect
Is it because my skin color is darker than hers?

She’s shaking a little
I wonder if she’s feeling alright?
She has to be fine for being that perfect
The face of a doll”

Poetry is the cruelest gentle way
To capture my heart
I’m an unsteady human
Regardless of skin color- but perfect?

I wonder if he knows
How much I wish I wasn’t me