Young Black Blues.

The knot in my throat
        says I should be crying;
chokes so bad you
        would think I were dying.

While searching for
        peace amidst this despair
You would think I’d
        gone mad, screaming at the air.

Some believe I am wrong
        Still, I chase my dreams.
None of what they think
        is ever what it seems.

When folks see me coming
        they glare with such disdain.
I know they know no better
        so I smile to mask the pain.

For those who war after me,
        sorrow will be their gain if
tomorrow’s bulletin reads: Another,
        Young, Black, and Slain.