End of Me
Why as Africa Americans do we become scared
when we see those lights flashing red and blue,
Why as people of color do we get the darker side of you,
assigned to serve and protect but who do we call
when we need protection from the man in blue.
Why does it have to be the enemy of color
We just want the truth,
Killing more than you seize
While our hands are up screaming don’t shoot,
Instead of your handcuffs,
your razor,
your baton at the very least,
It is your gun that you are so quick to squeeze
I would prefer tight metal cuffed around my wrist
Than a bullet be the End of Me.
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