One day I had sworn to serve the people of my nation.
To protect them from harm,
Keep the city safe from harm,
Wore my uniform in pride,
And the people of my town looked up to me with trust and honor.

Now I do the devils work
Disguised in the same uniform
And I hurt my people.
I hurt the young and the old and everyone who thought I would keep them safe.
I don't know when it began or maybe I do
I've lost conscience about my wrong doings.
You do not know who I am anymore
I do not know who I am anymore.

light like a razor blade
I squint
at a pointed shadow,
a thief, I thought,
but it was a cop.

his flashlight
stabs at stuffed animals
and plaid school skirt.
voice gruff
mother’s anxiety pools
in heated, clammy hands,
and when he leaves,
boots threatening,
she follows, rambling.

I wonder how
a man can mistake a child
for an adult.
but maybe,
he just liked rattling the cage
his badge built around us.

Black

Is it a crime to be black? Should i be castigated for my skin color?
Am I less of a human? Or is the fear that I am more? I’ll leave that for later.

They say black lives matter but does it really? They say their neighbours are black, that their barber down the road is black. They try to relate to everything black except what it actually means to be black.

The white eye don’t see what the black eye sees. The white life don’t don’t feel what the black life feels.
How can you play down a fear that you don’t feel? A fear that you instilled.

Tomorrow isn’t promised but that doesn’t give you the right to take away my tomorrow today.
I tell my kids they are the leaders of tomorrow but that is if that they can get through today.

The victims could have me or you. Sadly could still be. Think of the ones that have been brushed aside, with no camera or evidence to prove a thing. Think of the pain caused over the years. The worst part is? This is not a one-off, painfully It is just a matter of time before this happens again.

So do not tell me how to feel. I don’t tell you *******. But it does seem like you do pick and choose who to ****. Would you still be you if you could pick? That is for you to answer. The blood that you’ve spilled, it’s time for you to answer.
If we are picking and choosing I would pick repeatedly to be

Black

Those  who tread the thin blue line
knows it  follows through their lineage.

Strong boys become men,
then become cops.
The rest become robbers,
the devil that stares them
in the eye for the rest of their life.

If they  are good they’ll get
their shoot out
in the slaughterhouse.

In the weirdest turn of events that day
As a cop toting guns and pepper spray
I gathered an urge to pen my first ode
In my lunch hour, before hitting the road

To sirens and light of my precinct's space
not a stanza wrote, yet my mind's apace
the pen's the problem; confidence recede
Pondered a visit to a friend, indeed

Thoughtful I'm moving, this old clue I'd act
on Brooklyn's pen thief; kleptomaniac
acquired from him, an ink dipping quill
of Huia birds, still boxed with its bill

Case solved; on the back of the bill it hints
"Dear Mayor, pen's for poems; lead's for thugs."

Tried my luck, under the roof of the New York Dodgers dome
Didn’t make roster, hopped on Route 66, went to another city
Ended up at the front gates of Walter Disney’s home
Which has been re-zoned to downtown LA, oh what a pity
Walked the streets, buzzing to pollinate all the beehives
Saw some Fred Astaire dudes, showing off their colorful jives
Wandered down a blackened, one way street
And who the ****, do you think I would meet?
The one and only knife wielding ghetto ****, Huggy Bear
Who said, I wasn’t now, looking all that smug, oh dear
Then along came his crew, Bonnie and Clyde
Now I wanted somewhere to ******* well hide
All of a sudden, a striped tomato pulled up and out jumped Starsky n Hutch
Yelling out to the ****, Huggy Bear, who spoke double-dutch
Leave the boy alone, and go on and get back on home
Thank god you showed up, for I was ‘bout to write my last poem.

Immunity at the cost
Of false patriotism.
Immunity at the cost of
A heart... a life.

“You’re doing God’s work, Son.”
You hear as you march.
March in to the pit of ****** and blindness.
“He had a gun!” You cry.
“He was only a child.” I reply.

You take validity out of the words of the oppressed.
You take money from the pockets of the poor.
How many memories must you repress
To feel empowered enough,
to drop the innocent to the floor?