Tuesday, March 31, 2015

When my eyes opened I could see myself in a place illuminated with memories of my life. I feel a surreal sense of peace, euphoric the opposite of strife.

Was it my time, the answer I cannot speak, yet I can see my family and they are missing me.

What I observe now is conflict and doublespeak, I heard a reporter say, death, was in part my fault, as I should not have worn a hoodie.

Well, if that be the case, your opinion is ignorant, a miss understood thought, possibly a perspective of hate.

I will not reach my physical and mental peek, because my attire was misconceived? Similar to the heritage of Punjabi, a man who wears a turban and is considered Muslim not a Sikh.

My death should be a wake-up call for lawmakers and investigators for which the truth should speak. Not senseless rhetoric for a political candidate speech.

In the mid 1900s if a woman bore her bare ankles she was often thought of as frisky--easy and if a man whistled at her she was demeaned, worthy of only promiscuity.

Seventy-three years ago another kid who was just a few years younger then me, also suffered death from a misunderstanding. His name, Emmett Till, his action, supposedly flirting. My name, Trayvon Martin, my action, wearing a hoodie.


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