These thoughts appear unclear and clouded,
but among this confusion I find myself together,
arriving at paradoxical answers that ease the storm of my mind changing the heavy cumulonimbus into light stratus,
my fear of being uniformed and conformitive will undertake strain if I do not admit the fact that I do like the rain that these dark clouds bring,
and do not see how the stratus clouds serve a purpose as they are too thin to shield my thick dark skin even though I've been told that I'm "thin skinned",
hardened from centuries of toiling in these bars of cane,
even though not steel we could not get free,
listening to the whip crack as it and the sun pierced our skin while we were overlooked by strata,
still not free
even-though we're no longer held by the cane or chains,
we're now bound by our ideas of normality,
advertisements of white girls in thongs makes you think that's the only girl you can take home to mom,
we were mind fucked all those years ago,
won a few battles like that in 1804,
we will always remember James Boukman and Toussaint L'Overture,
but the war isn't over as long as there's some one who's uncomfortable in his/her skin.
(Fuck! I had too much to drink.)
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