Eight years. Eight long years. Eight years ago I was ten, you were eleven and I wish I could end this memory here. I can't.
I wish the dreams would end here, the ptsd, the flashbacks, the never ending cycle of death without justice caused by the cycle of poverty. Gun sales. Addiction. Gang wars. America.
I wish I could tell you I looked away. I wish I could tell you I didn't get closer. I wish I could tell you I don't wake up at night in a cold sweat and that I don't see my hands covered in blood. Yours.
"July 14th, 2010, a drive by shooting kills three gang bangers."
Wait a minute? How could they confuse you with a gang banger, you were just eleven. You were just walking home from school. You were just
black.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of a Young Mind
PoetryIt's exactly what it sounds like. My teachers and friends have pushed at me for years to expose my poetry to more than just them and myself so....that's what this is. I actually don't write a lot of poems about being Trans, but you might find one o...
