White Wealthy (A Poem)

I find it odd at times The Revoluntionary inside of me. I find it odd sometimes The God inside of me. Ringing mighty as the day Dr. Martin Luther King spoke in Washington. I wonder how my kin, my ancestors were like. Did they secretly read books and write poetry admist the burning sun? Or were they in the house cooking and cleaning and when no one was looking pulled out the pen and pad jotting down melodies, and phrases because secretly they were educated.

I find it odd at times My Strength inside of me. Like do I have Samson in my veins or that of a Mighty King who was more than a warrior. More than a conqueror? I ask myself during the times of stillness. I find it odd at times...

These storylines, characters and wordplays seem to fall from Writers Heaven. Gracing me with these magicial methods. Robbing with my pen the knowledge giving within.
I find it odd at times when a sentence is formed and just like that before my very eyes its outlined.
Will my ancestors be proud. Am I going hard enough? Can I get my point across more? Should I write until the New York Times get sore and decides that its possible that she is gifted and proceed to publish me in their newspaper. I hope I don't freeze. I pray the words flow with ease. I'll aim so high that my ancestors will be much pleased. Negro spirituals and hands clapping, praising and dancing in victory. Tears of joy. I may come off as Coy.

Oh boy! freedom of speech in 2019. Sometimes in the midst of the luxury. In the midst of the suspense and thrill of things. Every artist. I'm retracking my time on that line. Me as an artist, for I am an artist so I must like Nina Simone stated  "Reflect the times" Stur up the minds. Free spirit no confine. Do you mind? I'm just about to spill it. Two words come to mention: White Wealthy...
Let's see, let me play with it.

I'm a black girl trapped in a white girls body;

I want a different level of access without being in a white girls body.

Somebody...

Anybody...

Tell me...

I have friends that are white, I've seen how it's done.

I want in, I want in; just in my own bronze, coconut oil dripping skin.

My melanin is an asset, I have to say that again for those in the back.
My melanin is an asset, it's healthy;
I titled this poem White Wealthy.

Signed SJ The New Literary It Girl