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The Fear of Jamaicans


       
Bright yellow sun you see when your eyes are open
No matter how many times I blink my eyes I see bloody skies, bloody
sun, bloody hands, bloody guns
A wife applied makeup for the bruises left after her husband pierced her
delicate flesh unaware that the makeup couldn’t cover the pain that resonated on her heart.
A little boy eyes glistens with excitement as he polishes a gun that has
just been placed in his hands by the area leader, unaware that he would use it to take the life of his friend.

Don’t you feel the fear leave their bodies like steam from
a bubbling engine
A little girl waves innocently to a man on the corner,unaware that later he would cut out her innocence from its protective shield.
I see the fear around as I sweep my gate in the mornings yet some of us have dust on our eyes like the dust on my window ledges. 
Our leaders fail to see the roads we walk on paved with dried blood of innocent lives.
Three locks on my doors as I protect my family within but fear still sneaks itself in.
We no longer see love and hope in the future of our children we see a sense of want for help to simply feel safe from all the troubles around.
We see it in their eyes we tremble as we can hear the fear in their voices
Gunshots shake the foundation of the house and sneak up and devour us like snakes rustling in the grass.

They walk the streets outside my house in their well pressed uniforms to cover the sins of the past night.
I am the hope of the country as I rock my kids to bed in our little shack
While I rock, many parents bury their young.
M little feet can’t keep up with their heavy steps of authority and power
Fear is all I can see
My little voice utters words but the deep voices of the powerful cover
mine like a volcano erupting.
The more I cry the more my tear drops come together and flood the streets
so they can see my fears and feel it as they soak through your vessels you use to cover your sin filled souls.
I am the voice of a child, a mother, a politician, a police, a hustler, a don, a
Jamaican.
As I close my doors and lock out the bloody skies, the bloody gun, the
bloody hands. I wish I could lock out the gun, the stealing, the poverty,
the corruption. But as I blink another voice is silenced another tree is
axed from its foundation. Heads float in the rivers and the bodies stand
upright, voiceless.
Where are the voices?
Burnt in a fire, buried in a cemetery, sewed in the garments of the politician? Maybe, or maybe the voice is the future of my unborn son.
I close my eyes to the bloody sun, to the bloody guns to the bloody hands.
I shall not kill another soul tonight
I am the voice of what could have been a politician, a police, a lawyer, a
pastor but I am just another gunman 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Czjqpc-y0K8
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