Do they see us?

Hello, My name is Mo…

You probably know me or you don’t

But here’s how this story goes

Im only as human as you,

My dark skin branded with bruises and scars.

The many you see, far less than those you don’t

The scars of my heart.

As heartaches are far twice as hurtful

But you see these scars don’t define who I am.


I was young, yet old enough

Living through choices that finally made me

Much more of those that broke me

I was bold, but not strong enough

To overcome the desires my yearning heart craved for

A burning craze for manly arms to call a home, 

I died for a feeling to call love, pretty stones on my pretty finger,

And a day to say goodbye Papa.


But life isn’t pretty they say and life wasn’t.

A home turned to hell and love turned to fear

Aggression was the appetizer, sticks and stones my main course

I dined through dreadful words as desserts you’d die for.

But these scars don’t define who I am

I rose with the strength that never was. I fought.

I fought till the elephant in the room was finally caged. 

With my bare hands, the lion that roared was finally tamed. 

My darkest hours I gracefully overcame. 


You see these scars don’t define who I am. They don’t define us.

We survived. Through the oceans of misery, we survived. 

Scaled the mountains of hurt, hate and prejudice.  

Regaled in the cloak of the remnant of pride left for us.

We are revived. From the deepest pits of our failure, we’re revived.

For the days our young hearts knew no peace. 

But just as our colors don’t, our scars don’t define us.


Hello. Her name was Mo too…

Her story ended with I told you so.

But she spoke. See, she spoke and you heard.

But to hear isn’t to listen. 

Her cries fell on your ears like a deaf child to its deranged mother.

You all focused on your ‘values’ because society told you so.

He is the man. And you are the lesser gender.

She had a job to make a home. And she did. She had a home.


A home turned to hell and love turned into fear

Aggression was the appetizer, sticks and stones her main course

She dined through dreadful words as desserts she eventually died for.

Only then did you realize that it takes more than the eyes to see and more than the ears to listen. 

Raise your glasses at her funeral, to the society to which she belonged.

But the story hasn’t changed, and soon you’ll know there’s more than 2 sides to a coin.  



So I write this to you Mo, every breathing Mo

Thank you for not ending like so many lost Mos.

Yours is a story untold, one to be told.

You are a greatness shielded in scars, bruises, burns and those of the heart. 

But these scars don’t define who you are. They never will.

You don’t live for another movie to be made.

So I thank you for the hard times you overcame. 

The Rough and tough, highs and lows and more to come. 

I hear your feet have walked on broken glass; 

Yet for happiness, for love, you’d walk a thousand miles. 


You see love isn’t one door opened, or a lost one closed, 

But to love is to forgive your soul for the wrong choices, and be grateful for the lessons learnt. 

Love is your gate to paradise. I know. 


So when life throws you lemons, you make jars of lemonade off them. 

And when the world casts its stones, be sure to build walls and castles off them. 

High enough for their viewing pleasure, strong enough to block all negativity. 

So boo, relax on the pills, as you’re healed, happiness being the antidote and the only revenge you seek. 

Your scars don’t define you, they never will.

This crown, for you are Queen. 

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