Black Poem by Daniel Chapman

Black

Black is the bruise the world refuses to heal,
the deep breath taken when screaming won't save you.
It's the night that swallowed my fear
and dared me to stand anyway.

Black is strong hands built from survival,
knuckles cracked from holding on,
powerful even when bent,
great even when called nothing.

Black is amazing in the way it endures,
still rising while carrying names, numbers,
chains that echo long after they're gone.

Black is special,
because it knows pain and still chooses love.
It's divine, not from heaven,
but from the fire we walked through and didn't burn in.

Black is peace,
not silence—
but the calm that comes after you've faced death,
looked it in the eye,
and told it: you don't own me.