Do you know the prisons of roots?
Do you touch the corners of bones?
You see but not with their sight;
tears, you think they should own.

   You may kiss me with your ignorance;
   your light won't be one with mine;
   that will be the foe to restrain you
   from tying your path back to my mind.

     If you feel your last peak of emotions
     swing my senses from thin ropes,
     it is not your light's deed; it is mine,
     longing for another who I once owned.

   For I hear that poet-of-me every time
   I hear myself; only he carves me well,
   the one evoking deeper emotions,
   only he knows where these dwell.

You do know the prisons of roots,
you too scratched the corners of bones;
you think but not with their mind;
you're still not the only one who knows.

   You may see my true skin as the light
   brown beauty you hasten to show off,
   but when even skins are costumes, who
   am I when my custom comes off?

     I still want to swim in darker waters;
     see the light your kiss wants to hide?
     Though it shines under my pores,
     black is not a light you will recognize.

   Do you know me? I'm black like them;
   not designated by the light brown
   of my skin costume, it's not my truth,
   black is that feeling you won't drown.

Have you ever felt me? The emotion,
the words from the poet-of-me?
Designated by his imposing light,
black is the good I'm holding within.