My Black Mahogany

At the risk of sounding contrived—

yet deserving of applause for avoiding the cliché,

uninspired, and unoriginal phrase "caramel/chocolate skin"—

I will risk a detour

and attempt to fly.

Humble and polite are words

you do not use to describe skin—

but dare me!

I call yours subtle greatness.

Sun-swallowing:

how do you explain how it gleams as it conquers darkness?

Objectify it, I shall—

as their lazy minds cannot begin to see

that which is not inanimate.

Their materialistic minds can only fathom

that fine finish on peanut butter-hued woodwork.

Let them savour that picturesque imagery.

I had to involve them in our conversation, my love,

lest they feel left out.

As if somebody divine painted over you,

as if a great artist created you—

your skin screams Black Supremacy.

It hogs all the praise,

consumes the dark,

illuminates any air of doubt,

and declares you winner—

of this heart

and that of many

who deem themselves much worthier.

Their folly deceives them into believing

that greatness is only that which is tangible and corporeal.

What is this mob to your king?

Ants to a boot!

I shall obliterate their lesser cores,

shrouded in pettiness and vanity—

split them into their puniness

and expose them.

How dare you stand before a Thor

and attempt to woo his goddess?

Flies!

They irritate me.

Our insides scream greatness,

and our blue blood matches us.

Our monarchy begins with us.

Excuse my squeezing of that gat’s trigger—

a king only speaks once

and silences his detractors.

I have spoken.