His hands are up.
His hands are high.
His hands are adjacent to his ears.
His fingers tremble with fear.
Trembling with fear, that is crawling near,
Near and closer to his heart.
His hands tell a story,
That the other cannot see.
As the other judges based on color,
Not giving a thought of his past, present or future.
Only what he seems to be.
As he seems to be another thug.
another thug armed again.
Another thug, the same story began.
His hands are up, he is in hell.
His hands are down, In his pockets, he begins to dwell.
Which ever way he decided to go, up or down, he will go.
Oh yes, he will go.
He will end up with the bullet,
Between his eyes.
The bullet, on his thigh.
The bullet as it darts,
the bullet reaches his heart.
For this thug did nothing, and meant no harm.
The other was just ignorant,
the other was blind.
For the other was the thug who was armed.
Share This Poem