Much like lightning my spirit’slight streams across ours eyes brightest in the dark of night. 

The thunder of my voice crashes through your ears, in spite of your wishes for silence and still. 

Pride, mean more to me than your prowess, your lazy critique of the supernatural. 
For my excellence is akin to a second line, on Sunday, it hits, every time. 

So I ask, Why should I crack and crease the melanin mask guarding my ivory wall of joy, for you? 

I’ve never been a sucker or saint, so kind works and offering keep my heart idol. Gesture you know as familial are read simply as your transactional nature dressed in a unfit form. 

I leave you wanting? For me that is how I am still whole.