“As you make your bed, so shall you lie in it.” -Unknown

I confess to all my brothers and sisters that I have done some despicable things for which I must now atone, and so I stand alone in this strange place I call home; my mind isolated from the labyrinth in which I now roam, as I sleep on a thin layer of foam. It is a loud world but I remain quiet. It’s a buffet where everyone is suspect, but I’ll never deviate from my strict diet. Shovel in the dirt, stripped of my shirt, and I no longer have a single reason to flirt.

Day and night I lose sweat and tears as I try and cry to come to terms with my fears, over the slow passing of my years. To think I was only 25! Still, they were forty-five, thirty-five, and five! So now I’m 25 to life, having copped a desperate plea to lesson my strife. God, will you please forgive me even though I’ve never known you? Who knows, maybe what they say about you is true. If so, then tonight at least let me see you; if for no other reason than to see them once more, so I can tell them I’m deeply sorry for all the things I did before. I pray they are at peace in Heaven, while on my end I deservedly rot in prison.

P.S. There are consequences to our every action, whether big or small, whether in this life or the next. Live fully, but live wisely. Godspeed!

[image via]

Just Ice

Just Ice

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” —Martin Luther King Jr.

What is justice but just ice?
That quickly melts away under the heat of unjust laws?
The same heat that causes a tan so dark it
appears invisible to white justice.

Apparently, an overdose of melanin
causes a shortage of justice.
Invisible children, natural suspects, the flavor of crime.
Naturally, the dark of flesh must be dark of intent too.

No country for black men.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
“Officer, I’m afraid my eyes behold a black man!”
“And what’s he doing?”
“Walking, it would appear!”
“Do not engage suspect! I repeat, do not engage!”

You know the story, his story. It’s history, on replay.
Oh Lady Liberty, I thought you cooked in a melting pot!
What happened? For whom do you carry that torch?
And what of your sister, Lady Justice?
She’s grown tired, I’m afraid.

The weights on her scales have been
too unbalanced for too long.
Her hands know not right from wrong.
Forgive me, they do. It is her eyes that ain’t
right, for they see not the wrong.

Lady Justice, I address you now directly! How
would you like to bury your child?


I didn’t think so; no parent should have
to bear such suffering. But alas,
Under your gaze such is the case for this family.
What’s worse, the culprit yet walks and may
yet walk after all is said and done.
Wouldn’t be the first time, may not be the last.

What say you my lady?


’Tis a pity you stand silent still. I wish
you would enter your plea.
Ah, but of course. I rest my case.

What is justice but just ice?
That is invariably crushed into oblivion
under the heels of an unjust mistress?

P.S. No justice, no peace. Dedicated to the memory of the
boy, and cause that is the name, Trayvon Martin.

Letter to Sandy


Dear Sandy,

I don’t kill people; you people kill each other. Those are the favorite words of my significant other. So much heated debate, spawned from infuriating crimes inspired by hate. I just shot up a block in the hood but who cares? I’m just another glock in a black teen’s hands who was presumably a thug, probably on some drug, and obviously up to no good. Then I shot up a school, this time commandeered by “mentally deranged” Caucasian hands. A tragic massacre indeed, but it ain’t my fault because I’m just a tool. But maybe you’re just a delusional fool. I know of many a sharp pencil, kitchen knife and other utensils who don’t seem to be abused as I’ve been. Those other guys are yet to be sold legally and illegally to vicious warlords and subsequently gifted to poor African child soldiers and so called rebels by encroaching foreign governments.

You must not understand my pain. I make the last sound the dying hear as they take their last breath of air. And then I’m reloaded and repeated, reloaded and repeated until their screams have been silenced and they lie dead. What’s worse, the one who used and abused me lies just as dead. And all everyone wants to know is what was going on in his Godforsaken head? But the truth is, he died with each shot he fired. After all, cowards die a thousand times before their deaths.

None is more sick of this bloodshed than I am. None is more a victim of his own vices than me. If this is the purpose of my existence, then I might as well cease to exist. But alas, I who can end any life with a single shot cannot end my own. There is no fate more tragic, no punishment more cruel and unusual than to be forced to repeatedly do that which you yourself greatly despise. The sad truth is I have powerful friends with unseen faces in high places with unrelenting agendas who will fight tooth and nail to keep me close. I call them friends for lack of a better term. I mean, what friend would willingly see a friend suffer so? And the irony is that those who would outrageously cry foul and vehemently argue that their freedoms are being taken away when even the faintest talk is made of me being taken away from them have never stopped a moment to consider my own freedom.

I no longer wish to kill, certainly not the innocent, and especially not the children! But for my wishes to be met it’s gonna take more than my will. It’s gonna take more than your skill or lack thereof, pulling my trigger with your index finger. It’s gonna take a multitude of voices of reason, which would be able to exert enough excruciating pressure to shoot me down so that I can finally atone for my long history and ever expanding laundry list of sins. This is your last shot. I pray for your sake and that of future generations of your children, that you place it where it will count – in my heart.

P.S. Bullseye!



[Image via]