When my eyes opened I could see myself in a place illuminated with memories of my life. I feel a surreal sense of peace, euphoric the opposite of strife.
Was it my time, the answer I cannot speak, yet I can see my family and they are missing me.
What I observe now is conflict and doublespeak, I heard a reporter say, death, was in part my fault, as I should not have worn a hoodie.
Well, if that be the case, your opinion is ignorant, a miss understood thought, possibly a perspective of hate.
I will not reach my physical and mental peek, because my attire was misconceived? Similar to the heritage of Punjabi, a man who wears a turban and is considered Muslim not a Sikh.
My death should be a wake-up call for lawmakers and investigators for which the truth should speak. Not senseless rhetoric for a political candidate speech.
In the mid 1900s if a woman bore her bare ankles she was often thought of as frisky–easy and if a man whistled at her she was demeaned, worthy of only promiscuity.
Seventy-three years ago another kid who was just a few years younger then me, also suffered death from a misunderstanding. His name, Emmett Till, his action, supposedly flirting. My name, Trayvon Martin, my action, wearing a hoodie.