This poem was originally published in the Spring 2017 edition of Underground, Georgia State University's student-run literary journal. It describes the pain and anguish I felt after attending an event in the metro Atlanta area. More essays, poems, and presentations are on the works as my entire journalism and media platform is solidified, hopefully sooner rather than later. I posted "A Pursuit for the Ages" earlier, but forgot the most important tag for a Steemit rookie for myself. A better introduction of myself will be available later this weekend. For more information and support, please reach out to me on LinkedIn, Facebook, and Twitter. Please also consider contributing to my GoFundMe school campaign and GoFundMe personal trainer certification campaign, as well as through Patreon.
Eventbrite has saved my life—
networking opportunities like I would have never imagined.
Already running to Peachtree Center Station
so I can catch the next Northbound train,
Deathly worried about whether the Eleven45 Lounge would be empty.
The Google Maps directions are a complete antithesis of my life,
typically direct and exact,
Accounting for roadblocks and always ready
to provide contingency plans at my command.
So I arrive, and beautiful African bodies surround me;
sadness and glee fight for dominance
In my mind because that is what happens
when your mother is from Liberia.
Immediately, regrets about poor decisions and missed opportunities
flood my consciousness.
And then she arrives.
And then she sees me.
I am not prepared for this moment.
Perhaps the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen in my life approaches me because
“Real recognizes real and [I’m] lookin’ familiar.”
Without a care in the world,
she is a Maya Angelou poem in the flesh.
Floating.
Who am I to denigrate her existence
by not feigning happiness in my own right?
The most beautiful dark skin and countenance
in the history of human kind.
If there is such a thing as Heaven
and if Heaven is a good place to be, then I experienced it.
The music pounds, the Guinness pours.
Oscillating waves of gorgeous black bodies surround me—
and yet I am sorrowful.
Because it’s not about taking anybody home.
Why? Because I do not have a home.
It’s about the moments when I feel deficient,
not living up to the standards established by
My Afro-Caribbean ancestors.
Depression kicks in,
promptly followed by Body Dysmorphic Disorder.
HDTV’s near the ceiling showing the NFL Network’s “A Football Life”
doesn’t help matters.
Luscious black women reciting lyrics I do not understand,
because my mother refused to teach me “Kru,”
and their rhythms only push me to the verge of tears.
Defeated, exhausted, and humiliated,
I walk back to the MARTA bus stop.
Am I a loser?
Am I a failure in life?
Is this the extent of what I have to offer the world?
Is this the reason why indigenous Africans
excoriate American citizens like me?
I am honestly not sure.
Nonetheless, tomorrow brings
a different set of challenges worthy
Of my attention.
So I must strive for better because nothing else is acceptable.
I don’t want to let my people down, but it feels like that is all I have done.
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STOPWelcome to Steemit! I am very happy that you join our community! I wish you all the best on this platform and in your life too! You can count on me for what you need, you just have to write to me and I'll be answering soon. I send you a big hug from Argentina! My name is Marcos @kryptoland 😄👍🏻🇦🇷
welcome dear in steem world if you ask any question follow me on @farhannaqvi7 i always remeber you and vote you :)