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Madzq Apr 2015
The air was crisp and clean and clear,
The huntsman knew his time had come.
He gathered all equipment and gear.
Then shined and polished his gun.
He took a step, his boots polished black.
To his tiny little wife he blew a kiss back
Off, he was, to capture his prized buck.
She waved goodbye wishing him luck.

He got to his post, stood there and waited.
Patiently, with his traps he had baited.
For a time he remained quiet and still.
This kind of game was his kind of thrill.
Lo and behold, with rage and adrenaline
A perfect opportunity made its rise.
He steadied his rifle, an expert marksman.
He shot the young buck between its eyes.

In a moment it was done
And the huntsman had won.
The poor creature had no chance to fight.
It had fallen to the earth
No cry made it's birth
A silent victim in the night.

Time had come for homebound journey,
With the sun setting on both heads.
Only one of them back with family,
The other became family's dread.
The huntsman took his brand new trophy
And hung high the brown skinned creature.
Hand in hand with his wife he stood boldly
"I was the one to end this ******."
PenAndPadPoetry Aug 2014
To everyone
And put to rest
In a coffin
I apologize to every single person that isn't apart of the majority
I apologize for a race so far into themselves they fail to see murals
Because lately all they've cared about is how simple a blank white canvas is
The only way to make art is to have color
Lately I've turned off the news because of how embarrassed I am
Of a country that undermines success of women
Takes rights from gay people
And openly ****** black boys and men and women in this country
But walk away to their white houses
With their white families
And teach their white kids
That this is America
That America isn't slowly turning into a second holocaust slowly killing off everyone who isn't their definition of pure
Except instead of chambers
This deadly gas is inhaled by us everyday
Because it hasn't stopped
And more people
That have seen
Black boys
Fall from a bullet
Walk away without conviction
This poem was written to make
Every splinter in a wood coffin of a Martyr to shake
To hear what I am saying
And not to accept my apology
For years of abolishment
But to understand that we don't all come from hate
And that every time I am told I am the problem
I just say I'm sorry
Of my race
Not me
Black fathers shouldn't have to call their sons to be safe when walking home
Mothers shouldn't have to tell daughters that it's okay to be just a housewife
It's only okay to do what you want
So do what you want
Stand up
And never stand down

— The End —