morning splintered, <br />justice stinks like the <br />dried blood on the concrete walls <br />of an abandoned building. <br />you call this America! <br />lives wrapped in color, <br />in calloused hands. <br />standing in line <br />for a loaf of bread. <br />a bullet, a token, <br />a fresh covered grave, <br />you call this America! <br />you wear your god in sunday best, <br />throw words and prayers <br />into a bottomless well. <br />afraid of your shadows, <br />you arm yourselves, <br />you call this America! <br />the hands of take flex <br />and shout... <br />while dirt faced children <br />stand with mouths agape. <br />mothers die, and brothers are killed. <br />sisters sold on the block <br />beneath colored lights... <br />you call this America!<br /><br />Eric Cockrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/you-call-this-america/
