Artwork, Poem

Malcom X

Clasping the gun with the hand of justice.

We wait for the time to strike.

We wait to hear another protest.

We wait to hear another church fall.

We wait to hear another shot fired.

My blood meaningless to Trayvon Martin.

But it still spills.

They shoot.

They shoot me.

 

By Satura Dudley

Kristen

Kristen is a contributor for Girl Spring. Her posts focus on Girl Spring updates and current events.

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