Blamed like addiction. Advertised to hells. As we knit to become respected, semi-cursed, fully affected. Gaming eyes. Hungry wits. To adore for its unlike what I know. So similar. Same battles.
Different dragonflies. Abased for being feeble. Devastated for being strong. And Love tried to understand, she accepted the rain, unable to grapple with the trauma. Couldn’t quite relate, despite all the training. Something keeping us divided. And honestly, color fails to fathom privilege.
Moving through such a delicate concentration, music in commonality, jazz in psychic connectivity—so much is abandoned to locate Love. Some may assert differences, others links,
some remain absent from it all. What of poets—psychologists—psychiatrists—therapists? One might say—differences make humanity, pleasure and happiness take precedence. (Can we escape politics? Just a side question.) I can hear souls screaming: “Don’t convolute matters? Just live!”) I
find something peculiar taking place: even to ignore displeasure, even to love society, something cultural, something innate—carrying all of heritage, it wafts to the surface, it pokes, it probes us:
“I must be a good person!” This is the conundrum. What does it mean? And how much must I one, endure, and two, ignore, trying to pass by something breeding beneath the principle. An unusual
way to endorse color. A mulatto’s understanding. Mingling between worlds. To see clearly the similarities, to grapple with differences, to have some inborn disposition, running into bias at turns.
