To murder is to end the pain that would have gone on much further.
Murder is the dark shade of red that coats the lips of the weeping widow and it's the same shade of the asphalt as the crime is being committed.
Murderer is a word that describes the lowest of the low but oh how easy it is to find something lower.
You are the shovel that scrapes the mud, hitting rocks with the dullest 'thud.'
You are the blister at the bottom of a tired woman's feet as she sits in her office admitting defeat because the stacks of papers were made to keep her on her toes and, sadly, no one quite knows what happened to her.
You are the clown that children run from because your face tells them that there's much more than a gun that can scare you.
Murder is what brings families together in mourning and in anger. An unrepeatable anger that sets jail cells ablaze and leaves every single member of the jury dazed but not confused.
Taking the life that was never meant to be taken leaves the world acting as if it had just awakened and it is now seeing color as it stares at the shallow graves that cover it like a new winter coat.
Murder is what can be defined as 'terrifying tragedy.'
16 shots. Hands up don't shoot. Black lives matter.
Scratch that. All lives matter.
Murder becomes self-defense when a badge is thrown in, yet if there is no badge it is still murder.
Kill me now and tell me I deserved it. Tell my family that the soul that you have taken was worth it. Shoot me down and keep shooting until I stop twitching. Tell my mother that you wished it didn't happen. Murder me on black road and tell my father that I ran away, I never took it slow.
Take my life right now and tell me that I scared you. That I made you do it.
You can't, can you? Is it because my skin isn't dark enough. Or my blood isn't African enough. Or my hair isn't ragged enough. Or my lips aren't big enough or my attitude isn't there. Tell me where I can find it.
Shoot me down and tell me it has to be?
You can't, can you?
So why can you do it to them?
YOU ARE READING
Words.
PoesíaThis is a book I write in to relieve my mind of the horror it creates for itself. Poems or not, they're words. Definitions or examples, they're words. My words. Read it or not, they're my words.
