A Portrait of The Artist As a Young Black Girl (III)


She loved the people she met in books,

She could pin them down and study them up close,

They became real to her in a way real people weren’t,

Who were often flimsy and intangible,

Like loose papers in the wind.

The people in books never changed,

Even when reality did.

God was an exception,

Because the more she read,

The more mysterious he became.

So he stopped listening

And decided there was no God,

Yet, there were times when she could not deny

The presence of some higher power.

So she’d bow her head and say “Amen,”

And that was she knew God.

The only things she believed in were her dreams.

She wanted to be everything,

A writer, a poet, a dancer, a Spice girl,

A mermaid, a singer, a queen.

And because each was more impossible than the last,

She dreamed about them instead.

When she woke, she would write

About every adventure she had.

Her dreams became stories,

And poems, and possibilities.

A something from inside of her

That when said out loud, became truth.

If words had power,

And fiction held truth.

Than a writer held the power of truth,

And that is why she loved to write.

So, maybe, her biggest dream,

Was to share her truths with everyone,

So they would read each word,

And know her more, and love her too.


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