Memories of my Identity

We were not who you see today.
My mother asked me why I was not a believer
And I said
Because we were not who you see today.
Our skins shade
Has been changed
hands come together
And pray
I think that they
Still think that they
Still own us.
And no,
I'm not talking about the whites
I'm talking about the white cloaks,
The rictheous puppets
whose words spoke
Like spoken word
I hope
you understand me.
And my anger.
I speak a foreign language,
I am a stranger.
I do not apologize
If I do not empathize
For the sacrifice
That was conducted by
A blond haired and blue eyed
Middle Eastern white guy
Named jesus.
I've had dreams of
The scene of
Priests of
Fairer skin
praying over our mass graves.
The graves that they themselves filled.
I think that they
Still think that they
Still pray for us.
The priests and politicians
We their burden.
Because we are still not worthy.
We are still lost.
But I tell you we are not lost
We've just been misguided,
That crucifix points downward
Our God soars in the sky
I know that it's right
when I feel it warm my skin.
My brown skin,
But not brown enough,
Our queens were brown enough,
And now their bastards look like me.
Taínos.
It's almost sad to see.
I'm looked down upon
Because I frown upon
that bible you preach.
Don't worry mother,
I will burden your memories
And with them fuel the poetry
Our children will read.
Poetry my daughter will read,
and maybe recite to make change,
As a proud mestiza
Praying up to the day.