Can I be called beautiful by standard?
Without been slandered
Can my name matter?
Just like Martin Luther
Or be it the way I’m made
Should I be ashamed
Unpersuaded, I say,
It the colour of my skin
The scent of my body
The awkwardness of my laughter
And the tone of my voice
Imperfect as maybe
Still beautiful being me
Does the blackness of my skin make you spite?
For by it I slay the day-light
I see your labelled eyes
Ready to marginalize and ostracize
Unintimidated, I say,
It is the flip of my hair
The stretch of my skin
The fragrance of my breath
And the joy in my soul
Imperfect as maybe
Still beautiful being me
Does my uniqueness put you on bended-knees?
Knowing full well I damn please
I may not be built for an exhibition fame
But I’m sure worth the title ‘Grande-dame’
Proudly, I say,
It is the power of my tongue
The passion in my heart
The genuineness of my smile
And the grace in my stride
Imperfect as maybe
Still beautiful being me
In what manner am I seen as outlandish?
Simply because I don’t dress lavish
Sorry, I stand incongruous to your aesthetics
A bit too much for my characteristics
Smugly, I say,
It is the clarity of my voice
The quaint of my style
The star in my eyes
And the fire in my soul
Imperfect as maybe
Still beautiful being me
Praise Adeola.
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