Poetry

I shot a White, I killed a Black.

I shot someone

A while back

He told me I wasn’t good enough

He called me ‘Black’

I tried to make him see light

Told him my colour doesn’t speak for me

But all he thought is he was right

And my inner worth he failed to see

His men at me laughed

Called me dirty names

I guess it was their craft

To play these evil games

They think they’re so much better

With their snowy skin and golden hair

That they can’t pronounce a letter

Of your name with a bit of care

They smoked weed

And exhaled on my face

In my mind they planted the seeds

Of discrimination of race

I begged them to give me a chance

I wanted money so bad

But half of them were in a trance

Failed to see that it’s all I had

It took them a minute

To stand up and say

“You do your job

And we’ll go our way”

They gave me a gun

And a bit of cocaine

Told me to have some fun

And washed my brain

As I stood up to leave

I saw some of them playing with a slut

Another took out a dagger

Getting ready to cut

I tried to escape

But I heard a shriek

I ran to the corner

And I shot the freak

I ran away

And I hid near the gutter

As I was holding my breath

I could hear three of them mutter

I loaded my gun

And faded into the dark

Their snow-white skins caught my eye

As I made my mark

I pounded them with lead

And breathed relief

Made them a gutter death bed

And took a pinch of my grief

The world is dark

And so am I

I have no place to go

No reason to cry

I pressed the gun upon my temple

And asked God, “Why?”

I did not once tremble,

A drop of tear flowed out

As I started to die

As I laid down

And stared at the starless night

Hoping that Heaven wasn’t different

For blacks and whites.

 

About the Author

rohan

 Rohan Mukherjee

Ridiculously omnipresent | CEO & Founder of Grayscale Legal | Fellow at The Kairos Society | Percussionist | Doodler | Professional mocker

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