I was seven Or was I six? I saw a Young Black Man killed. Murdered for selling drugs on the wrong day. On the wrong street. In the wrong neighborhood. To the wrong people. Drugs supplied by the wrong government. In the wrong country. Generated from the wrong systems. The murder committed by the wrong man. For the wrong reason. With the wrong gun. That he was able to purchase at the wrong store For the wrong damn price. (It was cheaper to buy that gun than it was for him to buy 2 weeks worth of groceries for his family. Now that's just wrong)! This Brotha killed this Brotha in the wrong alley. While the wrong small children watched. While the wrong women screamed. Emptying out the chamber once. Wrong! Twice. Flipping him over to complete the job. That Brotha died next to the wrong van that day. The police were wrong for taking so long to get to the scene. The Coroner was wrong for leaving that Brotha's body out for the wrong people to never forget. I am Thirty-one now. I refuse to let go of how both those Brotha's were wronged. By the wrong country.
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