"The Prosectution Rests"


 “The Prosecution Rests”
This room gets smaller by the second. I swear that my winter-wear was
underestimated. It seems cool when you’re on the outside, but as soon as
you step through the threshold, it’s heated. Glands form liquid that
dampen your pits, and they make pit stains that smell nothing like citrus.
Now I’m sitting in a room that gets smaller by the minute, being judged by
a jury and a crowd of those that aren’t really my peers. They know
nothing about us. I should say me because I’m not crazy. But anyways,
here comes the prosecution. Already subjectively viewing my appearance,
lifting their noses, giving a smile to all those around them, but we can all
tell that they’re faking. All rise because the expectedly light colored judge
has arrived. Of course he calls the prosecution to give their perspective a
cry before anyone on my side. No matter the fake smiles, the winter wear,
or the car they drive, the words they utter are opposite of what you see on
the outside.
Each and every word out of their mouths becomes a lie in its own
right. I haven’t objected yet, but I just might. The prosecution says, “He
hasn’t been to jail yet, but he just might. I saw him hanging out with his
friends just last night. And statistics say that because of his color he’ll
have a short life. Growing within a single parent home, sometimes as a
kid home alone, is something that we couldn’t even see with our own
sight. The odds are stacked against him your honor. He's better shut up
somewhere in a collar. Destined to be blue-collar, never to be a scholar.
Hustling, yeah that's a riot. He'll be lucky to make an honest dollar. But, I
digress your honor. Because a dipstick went and put his dip stick, in a
miss whose aroma went amiss, when she found out that the test was a miss
and that she was actually pregnant. Just Lock Him Up.”
“It doesn’t matter if he’s a genius. His processing speed is low, and
he needs accommodations. We don’t have the federal funding to put him
in learning foundations, but we already met our quota of people in
honors, stemming from his race. And, truthfully he’s bigger than the
average young man, so we have to be cautious. I don’t know if he’s nice
or friendly, so every time I lock my door, I call the locksmith. Change the
locks and hopefully he won't bother us. I don’t want him mixing it up with
my babies and wife yet, so as far as the defense, I know his lawyer feels
the same. See his smile is fake too, but he just have to play the game. The
public loves to see every case appear to be treated the same. Obviously
we know how this will all end, we'll win, and he'll be locked up with
himself to blame. You shouldn't have been born black son...”
So I'm sitting in my mental cell having a conversation with myself...
None of this makes sense. Society has me dying, my mother crying, my
education syphoned from my mind even before they say at a certain stage
education is where I should start lying. Through his answers we may be
able to see where the trues lie. I’m just waiting for the burdens of his
dream to go awry. I’m angry more or less. I’m mellow and my ancestors
told me to let my mind set. Lord, I can’t wait until the day prosecution

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741