I AM TRAYVON MARTIN’S MOM
BY NAJAH SCRUSE
Words pour out of my mouth like vomit
To a bulimic, but still no one seems to hear my pleas.
I want you to understand
That I lost my mind of peace
Because I lost my son to a nine piece
And insanity has captured me
Into the hells of disparity.
Murdered with a hoodie, skittles and a tea.
Young, black, male.
Perhaps I should’ve had his death
You praise the drama of this case.
You worship the blood in my child’s name.
And you think the only thing I want is fame?
I hope you choke and gag on your
Lies until the truth explodes from your
Eyes and people will see the monsters
In the white hats.
A broken heart created by an innocent
Verdict, what’s the difference between
Zimmerman and the serpent.
Remind me when did murder become so heroic?
Come and see my son on display.
In a bloody heap with red coated skin
And a chest with a bullet hole within.
“You people with your dark skin and Nappy hair.”
The same people that you demoralize and criminalize.
The same people that you hunt down
To stroke your sadistic ego while
You look down your nose at the black folks.
72 hours of wordless sentences
And no voices to tell me my son was
Lying listless, deathly quiet and hollowed.
Nobody told me that I would be
Convicted as a malicious opportunist
That craves trash cans full of the
Same money that paid Zimmerman.
Nobody told me that my blood would
Be spilled onto cement, stained by its
Existence, revealing the once living.
Nobody told me it was my son.