Poetry Blog by Adam Scopp

Hands up

On your knees 

It’s not an instruction 

It’s a threat

Because your skin

Your hands 

Your hoodie 

Are a weapon 

So you drop

You drop like Trayvon’s skittles 

You drop like Tamir’s BB pellets

You drop like Michael’s cigars 

Or you drop dead. 

Each breath could be your last

Breathe breathe breathe 

I can’t breathe

Please, please, I can’t breath...

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