If I spoke the same time as the color of my skin,
Maybe the broken pieces can be put together within.
If I read all the books of my mother/fatherland,
I could regain a history that I never could understand.
If my culture was a conscious and my country a door frame,
Maybe I would think twice before walking through with my name.
But no matter how many ways I learn to say amen,
I find myself the same place again and again and again and again.
All my life I've felt displaced from all that is my name.
And in that time I could not find a place to call home.
One called mine.