"Black Lives Matter" a poem by

He shot my best friend

17 years old -- my true love

Lying in his own blood

On the pavement in a neighborhood

Where no one looks twice at a black boy laying on the ground cold as ice

I feared for him-- I feared for myself

But what good is fear if I cannot help someone else?

What will I do without you? Words I'll never speak and a diploma you will never seek.

All because of the wrong crowd picking you out with no doubt that this is the man with whom I'll take my anger out.



The crowd shouts, shots go off and people scatter

My soul shatters,

He was a piece of me.

Not property, not a slave, not a prisoner

Not lazy, three fifths of a person, or even a nigger.

Whether a cousin, a brother, a homie, or a father, whether a sister, a mother, a wife, or a daughter

Not even shootings make these titles less mild but the killings are completely wild and even for women,

We used to be princesses and empresses and now we are often mistaken for the devils temptresses and called lowly names.

We still hold our head held high. Our imaginary crowns never falling as we rant and rave for the justice of our men who were killed without reasonable sin.