Once a Man Called Me Nigger

A poem about an encounter in the early hours of the morning.

There are some words people might find offensive in this poem, so be warned.
I will refrain from writing long descriptions as to my thoughts and reasonings behind decisions in my poetry to allow people to draw their own conclusions. However, if someone is especially curious about this please feel free to ask.

Once a man called me Nigger.

Now who am I
To complain?
Just refrain
From speaking
Aloof
Against such an
Articulate truth

To him, I was Nigger.
To me, he was Dickhead.

Is it possible to change
The opinions
Of the inebriated?
The uneducated?
Is it worth the time
As dawn breaks
And stomach aches
Willing the wallet towards
Shitty processed food?

Still, I was Nigger
Now, he was Wanker.

I chose not to
Reveal my contemplations
Revelations
As to his new identity.
Wanker was,
After all,
Wankered.

Addressed, I was Nigger
Distressed, he was Sir

“Nigger tell me
Why?
Must I work (and play)
So hard for pay
That you fucks
Come and take away?”

“My apologies Sir,
You see, I was born with this talent.
One day I
Simply decided
What’s yours is mine.
A shame, then
That you too were not born
With this advantage”

This perspective

This reflective symbol on my face,
“Pick me! Pick me!”
After all,
Nigger here is all your problems
Wrapped up in conventional form.
Who needs real reason when you have Nigger?

Convenience,
Not confluence
Between facts
Consonant with
Reality, and a brain
Congrous with
Actually being used.

So until then, Person, I will continue to
Steal
Your perspective
Murder
Your accusations
Assault
Your struggle.

Once a boy called me Nigger.
Now who
Am I
To complain?

After all, we both left that day
Each confident in their seeing,
Each valuing their way.
Both forming judgements on the other
For something they cannot change being.

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