Hestoria

This brotha, his blue eyes are filled with hatred. I remember a time when they were brown and filled with love. But that's the way the world is, people use hatred to fight love.

Why not? Love seems timid, weak, almost non-existent and lost to rough times. Thieves steal hearts to kill them and feel it is no moral crime.

The media is the worst kind of thieves. Robbing youth of thier innocence and whipping out their individuality. With light skin and light eyes life is a breeze; a white man's reality.

The schools are liars. They segregate and with each child they lable and judge. They teach us to want the American Dream, instead of universal love.

Money is the key. He has to pay to change his apperance to live the American Dream. Because the dream wasn't meant for this brotha or me, so it would seem.

I didn't want the dream. But this brotha did, as if his blue contacts made his dark skin go away. The drugs he uses, silences the African drums in his heart, day after day.

This brotha lost his pride. He now prefers the blue eyes and logn blonde hair. And he blames me, that white is the color he prefers to wear.

I didn't protect him. When the Mastah creeped his way into my at night, this brotha watched. I can only imagine how this corrupted his beautiful thoughts.

I put up no fight. I was beaten, tired, and weary; this brotha over looked that part. Instead he thought, to the Mastah, I gave away my heart.

So he tried to steal it, with deception. But I was smart and quickly said no. Because after what the Mastah did, this brotha's white mask had to go.

By then it was too late. The mask had taken over and became a part of this brotha's face. When I refused him, he belittled me and his forgotten race.

What could I do, was it really my fault? He wanted my heart; which I sadly could not give. Since the brotha before him won't tell me where it is.