Where is the love? I never thought that I could be my own enemy. Saying “quit trying to act black” when it’s clear to me That I am a black woman, as one can plainly see. May not have lived the hardest life, but why on Earth does that matter? Would I be more of a woman if my chest and butt were fatter? You call me this and that, but what makes you so much better? I want to know how one can go to church and still make fun Of someone who’s a little different because of where they come from. Black against black – always got brothers and sisters on the run. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. But you hate me because you don’t like all of the things I have and do. It could be the clothes I wear or, shoot, even the gum I chew. I never fight without a good reason behind it. How about being my friend instead of always having a fit?