Target Practice

Little black boys grow up too fast.

But never live to become men.

They aren’t allowed to have visions and dreams.

Their name, failure.

Their birthright, a life of struggle.

Their identifying mark, inadequate.

Serve no purpose but for police target practice.

Destined to spend their lives imprisoned.

Desperate to get ahead.

Yearning for progression:

Trapped in a social cycle of mediocrity.

Their assigned final destination behind bars.

Or their last moments inhaling the scent of black tar.

The closest thing to a hug during those last moments, the warmth of the concrete beneath them.

Their blood spilled across the ground

Congealing.

Their final imprint on this world on a hot summer day.

9/8/18