Two am Trevon will be made into a man, tested on the dedication he has for his red colored clique. Trevon will have to decide which family he values more. Which family tree he doesn’t mind breaking the branches to; tonight one family will be left dry. His watered down stories of why he never makes it in before dark or why he hides pistols under his pillow; waiting in his slumber for anyone to blast off, and with these cold pieces of steel weighing heavy in his pockets he has decided to run god like, with the power of 50 tiny metal bullets he will shoot out blasting anyone that dares try to test his manhood, anyone that feels like a warrior, anyone just at the wrong place at the wrong time… anyone. And like god he doesn’t discriminate, making killing look so easy. Tonight Trevon will watch the brain matter of brown skinned boys like him shoot 10 feet in the air. Pointing the trigger in the mouths of these young gangsters, tonight they will bleed red; no longer will they get the opportunity to spew out blue encrypted code names. Trevon will watch the blasted remains of teeth and forehead crumble to the gravel he has now placed these boys 6 ft under in. He will smirk at the sight of this dark skin complexion blasting off right in front of him… Somehow he’s found complacency in murdering his own kind. Like Moses he has managed to create rivers of blood- messages from his god. Right now this boy feels invincible, with his elders in the background applauding him for his malicious acts of manhood. After tons of practice he has found no remorse in shattering these innocent and not so innocent lives, with no idea that he is placing his own kind on the endangered species list; with no fucking clue that he will be the cause of his brother’s extinction. But what’s worse is that tonight the murder will be murdered in cold blood. His over indulgence in killing showed others his weakness. Like him his killers will look him dead in the eye with no sympathy. Younger cats willing to do whatever it took to grow up faster than him, doing anything to make it home unharmed tonight, the same mentality Trevon had until his mentality stomped him 6 ft under. 3 am his homeboys will pronounce him dead because coroners no longer show up on these streets. His body will lay helplessly on the concrete because his homeboys don’t want to take a chance on another cat willing to die for just one fucking color. His mother will receive an all too familiar phone call telling her that her son’s never made it to the age of fifteen, and she will weep in silence. Her heart will shatter into even tinier pieces because she has again lost to the system. She will envision her son in his last moments of life weakened by the trigger, by the drugs, by the bond of young black boys like her son. She will pray for peace and for justice hoping maybe she will one day get some… What’s worse is that no one will ever think to cry a fucking tear for Trevon or the younger black boys taught that killing your own kind for bragging rights is worth gaining respect. No one will ever feel sympathy for the murderer caught in the misconception of how to survive in the hood. What’s sickening and hurts is that you can never tell the murderer from the murdered.