This is my only son, Sylvester Thomas Brown III. We call him "Tye." He just turned thirty. It's a shame but I worry about him driving at night. You see, like Mike Brown, he's a big dude. I worry that a policeman might shoot a stereotype. While I battle with hopelessness, he writes of hope. Check it out:
I was taught at an age near my earliest days
That I was less than the rest because of my ebony shade
Targeted, at the heart of it its simple & plain
I'd have to fight to live a life less than others have gained
These are different kinds of times deadly to all those at play
But we've got a different set of rules you don't hear what we say
We say we're trapped in a machine designed to keep us at bay
And all you silly fools can say is that we're blinded by rage
But how can you relate?
You can't fathom our faction? You don't eat the free lunch we eat or endure our actions
You don't go to schools with metal detectors or pee in decrepit bathrooms, like us
Yet you've got the nerve to tell me "be calm" while you haul off and lash us
Resist arrest and risk death is an acceptable casm?
Yet you target us, arrest us, and take our money and scatter.
We're supposed to be OK with this and pretend we still matter?
And the minute we show protest you shoot tear gas at our asses?
What are we worth to you?
What miracle will it take to get you to embrace the fact that you're hurting you
What more can we give back? What do we have to do to get you stop slaughtering our youth?
Treat our wounds
Walk in our shoes and see why we choose to fear who's sworn to protect and serve
To Feel so scared when a siren blurs
To feel so hopeless in a world of hope
To suppress your your gifts & just learn to coast
I was raised on a plane of confusion and hate it's pillars made of jealousy it's beams of distaste
I was molded by the cold that would darken your soul
Yet still i stand before you with a sliver of hope