Beach Blue Hoodie

My red and grey striped t-shirt on

Zipper placed half way up my neck

I climb into my beach blue hoodie

but the hood’s not up quite yet

I look around as I am walking

There are decisions I must make

I see a mum with her two kids

and it affects my mental state

Because I remember when I was robbed

A hooded fellow black man’s victim

and he left me feeling ill

and paranoia was a symptom

but I don’t know this ladies’ tale

and I don’t think that she is racist

Maybe I really hate myself?

Maybe this hood just makes me faceless?

Yes! Maybe it’s that she doesn’t know me:

naïve she is to my intentions

But I should think more of myself

and throw away these apprehensions

Why do I think that she should fear me

when I have given her no reason?

I’m in a country where someone’s race,

unlike The States, is not a beacon

Yet I don’t know why I’m so conscious

of the colour of my skin.

I’m pretty sure I’m black and proud

but then, what is this doubt within?

Why am I scared that I will scare her?

Why do I feel like such a burden?

Why am I grateful she’s so nice

and why, of me, am I not certain?


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