Thumping through my earbuds
Are the musical notes that paraphrase
My state of mind.
They clutch to my eardrums
To hang and play upon,
Hoping to reach low enough
To play my heartstrings…
And they do.
Awakening me in awkward, nerdy, slightly emo
Middle school,
I learned all of the lyrics to a new Paramore song
Each day.
While questioning the concept of prayer,
Their Hallelujah was my meditation.
When questioning afterlives,
Coldplay was my Paradise.
They got me.
So why did friends and family say they weren’t
For me?
Was it because bands were bringing me out of
Certain depths
And not the people in front of me?
No.
The fall was deeper when someone explained how
Strange it was,
Me liking white music.
For music that was a mosaic
Of my emotions,
They did have a point.
Those musicians weren’t exactly the
Same shade as me.
But when I attempt to defend my tastes
Through history of blacks giving birth to
Rock & Roll,
No one wants to hear it.
It’s still seen as white.
Hozier couldn’t Take Me to Church
But he could take everyone else
In this particular context.
I don’t appreciate the oreo complex
In explaining why I should like more
Hip hop or
R&B ,
And I do like a few of those genres
In my playlist,
But it did make me ask:
Where were the sisters?
Where were my mocha to chocolate covered Muses
To soothe me
Through my adolescent sorrows?
If rap could welcome Eminem
And Macklemore,
Why couldn’t alternative
Invite anyone to the brand?
Where was the proof of people of color
Being able to sing about
Depression and exclusivity?
Because it does exist for us.
A lot more than people
Make it out to be.
Where was my proof that not every
Black singer sounded like
Jennifer Hudson?
To my white people, I’m sorry,
I’m not very skilled in gospel singing.
Lyrical storytelling and strong production
Still gets me weak in the knees,
And I still have yet to purchase
A Paramore t-shirt,
But I would love to see more of
My face somewhere.
It shouldn’t be too much to ask.
flighty101 