This is a poem I wrote after observing the Jordan Davis situation. Tell me what you think:

Who will protect the young black boys in the suburbs?

Who will protect us from you?
You who fear us,
because of our hoodies,
our loud hip hop,
our darker hue.
Our brash bravado
that does not bow to your whim,
your whip,
your baton.
Now our defiance is too much
that you cut us down which guns.

And we thought we were safe,
if we move our sons into a nice neighborhood.
If we gave them a good education
and got them into a good school.
We as young men would be accepted,
not be a threat to you.

But even if we get an elite Stanford education,
and some swagger in on step
you are quick to call us a thug
if our tongues become haughty for your liking.
Must be always even tempered and well mannered
less you deem us obnoxious.
Call us a gorilla
just because we turned up
in front of a prissy blonde white woman.
Are you for real?

You who have been killing us
every since we got to this place.
Overworked to death in those sugar and cotton plantations,
oil drenched whips left blood strained streaks
down our backs.
We would cry with outstretched hands
as our sons and daughters were ripped from our grasp
and sold down the river.

You who devised an apartheid system after slavery
just to avoid being near to us.
Where you made our men underpaid field hands,
our women domestic maids
and made our boys into alligator bait.
For real, you made them alligator bait.

It was like you became addicted to killing us
we became the bloodied strange fruit
swinging from southern trees.
You used to gather around
and watch the life
being strangled from us
right above you.

And no age was safe from your wrath.
Emmitt Till, 14 years old.
Beaten and pummeled beyond recognition
all because he whistled at a white woman.
Oscar Grant, 22 years old.
Handcuffed and pinned down
Between Messerly’s knee
And the Fruitvale Bart platform.
Murdered with a bullet shot in the back.
Travon Martin, just turned 17 year old.
Walking to his father’s house
With a bag of Skittles
Minding his own business.
When George Zimmerman
stocked him,
Accosted him,
Threw him to the ground,
And shot him dead
He said It was Travon’s hoodie
That made Zimnerman think he was a criminal.
Alan Blueford, 18 years old.
Was chased by the police
And was shot down in cold blood
On these cold Oakland streets.
All because Alan ran
the cop gave the excuse
That he was up to no good.
Then there was Jordan Davis, 17 years old!
Who Michael Dunn murdered
Just because  Davis played loud hip hop
In the car with his friends,
Dunn deemed them all thugs
and thought to kill them all
before they killed him.
Even though he was no danger
From unarmed teenagers
From the suburbs.

Not one of the murders
Of Emmitt, Oscar, Trayvon, Alan, or Jordan
Were convicted of first degree murder
In the trials right after the crime.
It beg the question
Why are you scared of us
when you kill us
without much repercussion.   
When you think about it,
The real monster to be feared
Was always you.