I revel in myself
with the simple phrase “I am.”
in this technicolor climate with city lights that blind so massive
an insidious canopy, puppeteering the masses with translucent threads made of impassiveness
I’m just another unorthodox soul sending smokescreen signals throughout the land
telling whomever listens that I’m worth a good goddamn
to flaunt one’s irregular imperfections so boldly is considered by many to be the work of dark magic
isn’t it tragic? for oppression to be so prominent without any mention of pragmatics?
I’ll keep growing into a galactic primadonna
pirouetting through vibrant nebulae
psych’o’delic wisps of cosmic slop swirling around my ankles
constellations forming from the curls of my fro’
dark matter fluff creating intergalactic diamonds in the rough
Yes I’m made of all of this and more, interestingly enough.
The Banished Ones vs The Aristocratics. I wonder, I wonder, who’s actions are truly more dramatic..?
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