Scrap Metal Poem by Valentine Cinnamon

Nothing's sacred if not your name
a symphony of pride and pain
A part of your ancestors ingrained
In your personal honorific.

It means honor, excellence, and gain,
Safety, peace, tranquility;
A semblance of royalty
Resides in my name.

My parents didn't sweat every day
for my name to be slain by a white man
like a jagged piece of scrap metal.

To say the words my they claimed,
To butcher them like the brute Cain,
Is blasphemous and beyond profane
To my ideas and my emotions.

This name contains my culture,
My mind, my infrastructure;
Its roots extend into thoughtfulness and beauty.

My name is just a title,
While it tastes like rain and vitality,
It's presence is like a break of reality.

Inconvenience does not define me,
When my parents made to design me
They didn't pick words to confine me,
My power comes from myself.