The Ethics of Capital Punishment

There are many who believe that Capital Punishment is a befitting end for those who commit heinous crimes. Concluding that punishment by death would be a just discipline as opposed to rehabilitation. This attitude towards the topic is emotionally charged. Moreover, an anger filled outcry of those seeking retribution in the name of justice. For example, the murderer of a child being condemned to the highest form of punishment by law. Contrary to human emotion though, this is a situation that calls for the discretional use of fact-based information. Is it a plausible thought process to reason that legal homicide is a rational solution? Is it safe to say that death over rehabilitation is a right course of action? These become the questions that fuel debate throughout the penal system and the watchful communities of our nations citizens.
Since the colonial period Capital Punishment has been a means of exacting death as a final judgement. A catalyst for the public defense against those who would commit crimes far too despicable for penal servitude. The moral aspect of such a sovereign conclusion is certainly a cause for serious introspect. Moreover, the taking of a life is a thing of great severity even in the constraints of the criminal justice system. At what point do we consider the human condition in the equation of life or death? The governing powers that be have claimed a God like sovereignty, that they exercise with great dexterity. Even in the past year to the present date, the death penalty has had a significant presence in the penal arena and still continues to be a heavy debate. The statistics for Capital Punishment is compiled each year by the Bureau of Justice Statistics.

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Negro Son

What a gruesome beast this hate towards me. A pulsing thing that would steal my life for the skin I’m in. The skin of my mother and father, my ancestors and the community that surrounds me. This black skinned man child of midnight dark and heavy, how they plot to soak the earth with the blood of this negro son. Be certain the devil walks among us, I know because he has killed my brothers, he has killed my daughters, and anyone who challenged his righteous gun and privileged attitude. I cannot forgive a thing that would see me dead before excepting me as an equal. To be clear, it is not equality that stands in the balance but respect. Moreover, respect as a human being and most of all a man. What right does one man have over another to stifle the right to freedom? How unjust are the governing laws that would support these types of men? There is a universal tone of unrest that vibrates through every urban ghetto, every forgotten project tenement and impoverished neighborhood. A low menacing sound that pierces the hearts of the people. The shrill cry of a banshee bringing news that hope will die today. Lady liberty with her tablet of laws and her torch to burn the churches and the black roots that sustain them. There is no liberation for the black man, the hunted man, the despised man. Her laws were not written for me and my kind, laws made of chains that suppress, laws that exclude and divide one nation from another. Laws that kill every black leader bred from the hate this society prides itself on. Every black writer that dares expose the truth about the heinous injustice served on his people. Every black mother who stands in defense of her young sons and daughters. History is an astute record keeper recording for posterity the tragedy of my people. A people condemned to dwell in the violence that hate produced. Why am I so hated? Am I a thing to be feared or rebuked? Burning questions that sear the soul forever branding us misfits of the human race. Our eternal song with words that lament our civil discord we sing in hymns and spirituals to document our sorrowful plight. We go unheard as we scream amidst the din of racism with its filthy hands at our throats, threatening to silence our hope for freedom. Although damaged and bloodied we must remain diligent in our fight. We must remember that our existence is the result of the sacrifice made by those who came before us. We are the children born of burden, sweat and tears. Those who are shunned, daughters of the dust and negro sons.

Be Alright.

If you see me walk to the edge stand your ground it be alright.

If you see me cry and become blind with salty tears it be alright.

If you hear my spirit scream with pain don’t you mind it be alright.

Sometimes it feels better to live with the unfamiliar than to face the reality of this world.

What a lonely place in the cold shadows of this motherless land. I pray Jesus change my name and make it alright

Ghetto Spring Memories.

Summer don’t come because spring lives forever. Spring gives love that tastes like cooked food. Plump and dark with a smile that could make the devil cry. Her voice is low and smoky sweet she could sing time to sleep. Soft curves that moved like words on the wind, she could change the seasons just walking down the street.
My ghetto spring, I remember.