blvckvcid:

my flower unfurls, people think I might talk.
just another rose growing on the sidewalk.
in truth all this inner city violence,
is still my natural environment.
roots deep, press an ear to the street & hear them rumble.
in the dark, men with good hearts are known to stumble.
but I’m the black who rose like a rose when he flowered,
the beauty balanced as my attitude has soured.
they see my pretty petals but stay on the periphery,
as my stems are spiked so they don’t want shit with me.

they blame it all on this melanin.
young, black and wild as the flowers I’m mentioning.
none of them cared about my dreams,
nature doesn’t seem real when you see it through a screen.
as they snipped at my stems, know the scars don’t heal,
they just want a pretty picture and the art don’t feel.
so where can I call home? they want me out the city.
in autumn, my last petal died and they sigh, what a pity.