I shake a loose and, as I dwell in my mental cell; The case cop tried to sentence me to mental hell. It’s plain as day the whole city is corrupt; Shake a brother, break a brother, try to set him up. I’m falling flat on my face as the victim of the viewer; The vision of this man is the vision of the sewer. Traumatic pain as I sit and wait day by day; The next move is a guess what will they do or say. Cased up in maximum now the TV’s real; Keeping sharp for the snitch trying to make a deal. N.G. (not guilty) is the style that I manifest; I stay real to the truth so that I get a bless. Back up against the wall as I pray to heaven; the name is 171467. The blindfolds as the viewer makes me walk the plank; my only weapon is the truth like a verbal shank. Trumped up parables won’t say his name in vain; Wallowing in the pit of heathens makes me go insane. Stacking up upon my soul like the contraband; You mark my grave, I fear you not ‘cause I shall fear no man. Double up on my faith with the time I’m facing; Me one bad rude boy hitting tribulation. Holy terror hits my face as I meet affliction; Fusing hearts, souls and minds as we make predictions. Of all the devils on this earth trying to suppress me; Run mind for mind, truth for false Now YOU cop the plea. © 1995 By Eric Crane
Reason for writing:
I am Eric's mother. Eric was recently incarcerated for a crime he did not commit. He never went to trial, but because he is a poor black man, and was defended by a public pretender who doesn't care about justice as much as he cared about quick turn over. Eric's poems describe what African Americans in this country endure when persecuted by the unjust justice system. I will be back with more of his poems...but for now contemplate this one.
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