American Subconscious

Can you see me walking down the street? Head phones on skipping over the cracked side walk, I feel your vision searching my features for any hint of wrong doing. You’re trying to classify me. Point me out, inspect, detect, and inject. Inspect my clothing, my pockets, my whereabouts, my care abouts. Detect my actions and attitude, no gratitude for your misplaced hate with great magnitude. Inject your subconscious hate that’s reflective of discriminative conditioning based on opinions so subjective.

Do you see me or do you dissect me? Can you see me walking down the street without pulling out your protection in order to secure the perimeter? It won’t protect me. Can you see me walking down the street? Who am I but a man who isn’t aware of how much he should be appreciating life at this moment. A cocky cop with a gun equates to hero while my skin brown, from what some American’s may call a genetic disposition, statistically dooms me for the penitential graves that keep brown bodies consumed. He was only doing his job? Well, I was only living my life.

Dark complexion…I love to admire while I put on my clothes that’ll soon be tattered with holes, letting you look into my soul when all you had to do was ask. As if you’d ever really care to ask. My brown skin, made to feel like a pre-existing condition in a pale world made by men only looking to insure a privileged life to be had for their own. This subconscious expectancy constructed by a sideways society that doesn’t want to help treat me…treat me as a man, a human. Mankind not being kind to man. We’ve become an oxymoron. Who but a moron to believe there’s equality. Made my way to the street to see where this day will take me. From sunrise to sunset, I have to make sure I don’t come off as a threat, don’t look a danger. First I have to make it across the street and down the side walk, but do you see me?


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