To the outsider, you have no name.
The shape of your eyes, the shade of your skin is a kin to shame
Who are you to ID me?
What countries are in the mix when you can't see behind the flesh
Blind, immature boys in the guise of men
As if looking at my face will tell you who I am
As if the mind inside is just the pollen of the flower
An unseen jewel that holds the power to perception
Not just the different colors of my face which are the same hue
Cue the song I'm crying
Weeping angel, because they know not what they do
What are you?
WHO are you!? Is the question
"A flower by any other name would smell as sweet"?
How about knowing me, for me and not my ethnic identity
You have read the words of my book
A mere summary of the novel
Knowing what you know, seeing the person before you
Title me? No. You title you.
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