This is a new poem that I wrote a few days ago. I hope you like it:
So much is going on.
The block is a scotching frying pan,
Frying my brothers on the pavement.
Our bodies are etched on the concrete,
blood drenched as permanent ink.
Chalk should not outline our death bed
or a body bag be our first casket.
Bullets lurch out of guns,
slice the air and
pierce the thin borders of our black skin. Eat away at our muscle and bones,
borough through sinews and blood vessels
until it reaches and stops our hearts.
It is not just the gang member on the corner
whose aim we have to dodge,
but also police on the beat
who’s itchy trigger fingers
leave us with our brain matter
splattered on the concrete.
Now we have to watch out for the neighborhood watchmen.
The want-a-be cops who think we are foreign to our own neighborhood.
Trayvon had a hoodie on to protect him from the rain,
but it didn’t protect him from the bullet from Zimmerman’s gun.
Old George just couldn’t help being a deadly Don Quixote
and shoot at every black boy
claiming he was a harden criminal.
My coco skin is not a target for your gun.
It is the sacred encasing of God’s masterpiece
That give warmth and joy to every loved one it touches.
No bullet will destroy what God has made immortal.