I am colored.
Living in a divided country.
If i could wipe this black off of me
would i be accepted?
I try, but it doesn't work, I look down and
I am still colored.
A prisoner of this skin i'm in.
Standing in my best Sunday dress with my hair done nice,
but they don't see beauty, they see a Negro who has to use a different entrance because they think we are less than, because
we are colored.
My daughter standing beside me, the one I'm supposed to protect.
How do I protect a little black girl from this country's hate and disrespect?
We have our own entrances, our own water fountains, our own stores.
Not because we are special,
but because they are better.
Are we not all the same?
According to them, we never were and never will be.
Written from “Department Store”