"The Prosectution Rests"

 “The Prosecution Rests” This room gets smaller by the second. I swear that my winter-wear was underestimated. It seems cool when you’re on the outside, but as soon as you step through the threshold, it’s heated. Glands form liquid that dampen your pits, and they make pit stains that smell nothing like citrus. Now I’m sitting in a room that gets smaller by the minute, being judged by a jury and a crowd of those that aren’t really my peers. They know nothing about us. I should say me because I’m not crazy. But anyways, here comes the prosecution. Already subjectively viewing my appearance, lifting their noses, giving a smile to all those around them, but we can all tell that they’re faking. All rise because the expectedly light colored judge has arrived. Of course he calls the prosecution to give their perspective a cry before anyone on my side. No matter the fake smiles, the winter wear, or the car they drive, the words they utter are opposite of what you see on the outside. Each and every word out of their mouths becomes a lie in its own right. I haven’t objected yet, but I just might. The prosecution says, “He hasn’t been to jail yet, but he just might. I saw him hanging out with his friends just last night. And statistics say that because of his color he’ll have a short life. Growing within a single parent home, sometimes as a kid home alone, is something that we couldn’t even see with our own sight. The odds are stacked against him your honor. He's better shut up somewhere in a collar. Destined to be blue-collar, never to be a scholar. Hustling, yeah that's a riot. He'll be lucky to make an honest dollar. But, I digress your honor. Because a dipstick went and put his dip stick, in a miss whose aroma went amiss, when she found out that the test was a miss and that she was actually pregnant. Just Lock Him Up.” “It doesn’t matter if he’s a genius. His processing speed is low, and he needs accommodations. We don’t have the federal funding to put him in learning foundations, but we already met our quota of people in honors, stemming from his race. And, truthfully he’s bigger than the average young man, so we have to be cautious. I don’t know if he’s nice or friendly, so every time I lock my door, I call the locksmith. Change the locks and hopefully he won't bother us. I don’t want him mixing it up with my babies and wife yet, so as far as the defense, I know his lawyer feels the same. See his smile is fake too, but he just have to play the game. The public loves to see every case appear to be treated the same. Obviously we know how this will all end, we'll win, and he'll be locked up with himself to blame. You shouldn't have been born black son...” So I'm sitting in my mental cell having a conversation with myself... None of this makes sense. Society has me dying, my mother crying, my education syphoned from my mind even before they say at a certain stage education is where I should start lying. Through his answers we may be able to see where the trues lie. I’m just waiting for the burdens of his dream to go awry. I’m angry more or less. I’m mellow and my ancestors told me to let my mind set. Lord, I can’t wait until the day prosecution rests.