on being a minority.

i don't understand, why my flesh means more to you than my soul.
my skin doesn't do anything;
it doesn't speak, it doesn't voice it's opinions,
it doesn't tell you it loves you, it just covers me, it's just there.
i am not my skin.
yes, it tells of my history, of my past;
of my family tree and perhaps where they are from,
but what does that say about ME?
i am my own person,
skin is redefined by every person who wears it.
i am not just my skin.
nor am i just my hair,
or my nose,
or my lips,
or any other of my features.
i am ME,
i am my thoughts,
i am my actions,
i am my attitudes,
my feelings,
my laughter,
my smile,
my skills and my talents,
my flaws and my imperfections.
YOU, you focus on the cover,
and I, i beg you to open the book.
i beg you to read.
read my pages, even if you choose only to read the first,
because the first will tell you far more than the cover.
the cover ain't nothin'.
no, the cover isn't really me at all;
the cover's been beat by rain and by mud,
by falls and by tosses.
The cover is better defined as a picture of: what the WORLD has DONE TO ME.
In order to find ME, you have to look past that.

I don't understand why i have my prove myself to you.
I don't understand why you think that you can tell me what i can and cannot do,
what i'm capable of, and what i'm too weak to accomplish.
you don't know me.
i don't understand why you think you can define me,
when you haven't even read the first page,
and honey,
there's thousands; looks like you've got a long way to go.