|
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.
*********************************** http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=500290931
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
|