Poem Transcribed As Performed.
Do you see it? The invisible boundary between everything, between you and I, wrapped in years of tension. Some will choose to ignore it, climbing over the sightless rope without any strain to their physical being and others will try to rip the boundary to shreds, hands soaked in the blood of its victims. The worse type are those who will only ignore this separation when it suits them, forgetting about this devastation. Someone like you. Taking and claiming are the only two things you know, what you were taught and told. Set out in a specific code that others could never fathom to uncover. One of entitlement and privilege the master of all the switches.
But, you still don’t see it. You are spelling my name wrong and getting mad when I correct it. As if I am trying to change the name you gave me. Like you finally gave me a purpose, a new life, I guess that’s what the white man thought in the beginning. You are stealing my name and adding an ‘e’ deleting the apostrophe, claiming it as yours and leaving me to count the score adding an extra bolt on the door. Not because I am angry but because I feel that if I allow myself to trust you, you will take everything until I have nothing left. Feasting even when you are no longer hungry. It is not your fault, you were taught that this world holds no walls only the ones you build yourself.
So Let’s not talk like we are mutual friends when you are really The Pink Panther trying to steal my diamonds. Romanticizing the idea of stealing and spoon feeding it to children, the same kids that will grow up thinking cruelty doesn’t exist. Not seeing that the detective tries in every episode to explain the crime and is blamed for it, laughed at for being so sensitive. Labeled a liar in every scene until he gives up and takes it, sits back, and watches.
I just wanted to try something new you say, when really you want to know the secrets to my every concoction, trying to figure out a way to my magic. The ingredients in my every potion, slipping you just a taste of the real thing through my vulnerability. Multiplying it and selling it to your girlfriends and receiving all the credit, coming up with a new name for it and erasing the creator from existence. But coming back to me you when it no longer sells, no longer gets the woahs and the gullible gals. Asking for something new, something that will suit you more, something that is actually yours. Do you see it now?
Kenya Burton Poetry 