I was afraid
to read that book
Of poems
about black women and history
Displayed
in the “African American Studies” nook
Of A
Room of One’s Own. It’s no mystery
I felt I
was not worthy
Of its power
or its secrets
By the virtue
of my birth. “He
Is too hard
on himself?” Yeah, I have regrets
About leaving
it behind
On the shelf.
How many
times had I declined
These kind
of opportunities to challenge myself?
I promised
I’ll return for it,
Like other
books I have refused,
But promises
are forfeits
When my ego gets scuffed and bruised.
September 13
September 13
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