travyon.

young king, even in death, you overpower
the strongest man that thinks he's white

and you black- his fear of you, a constitution,
a hung jury, a death sentence.

i want to be illiterate some days, in order to bypass
the fine print most americans can't see if only

for the campaign that is an indefinite commercial break,
that wherever you are, you were,

is always the wrong place, brute, unwanted, seized.

*
i saw you yesterday, walking down the street,
laughing with friends, making plans for the day,

for tomorrow. i weep unexpectedly. it hurts
to lose you again, so suddenly...

i am better for it. alive in my heart's aching.
able to remember you and make others not want to forget.

your fate is my own. i've lived a thousand
deaths and while many may deem this cowardice,

i own it as birthright - to bury myself over and over
and over again, but never die.


*
some will say that you were just a nigga that died,
said too much, hid your hands, didn't submit to authority.

that there are no martyrs here, you parents tears,
invisible, for show, you, criminal.

but i know the story, how it begins and ends.
we were never known and every time we burden

the feed with truth we are fed alternative fact.
my stomach hurts, my heart forgets to beat

and my nerves be bad sixteen shots from
21 guns i've never held. pouring liquor out,

drinking my water, doing my push ups,
kissing my wife goodnight, hoping.

i swear that if you ever come back,
i will be your neighborhood watch.



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myself is sculptor of
your body�s idiom:
the musician of your wrists;
the poet who is afraid
only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair...
-E.E. Cummings