His dirty hair became even filter as he hollered out a wine.
A kick, a punch, and his attackers flee.
He laid there the dirty boy, the poor boy, the boy who could be so beautiful; hair a mess clothes woven together by the pieces of thread left,
It rips.
He makes his unforgivable decision.
He limps pass the darken alley that has broken his spirited,
Past the disgusted look and mothers hurrying away their children,
Past the cops that never helped,
Past his friends that only looked away,
Pass the train tracks that seemed to separate the wealthy from the poor,
Pass his yard full of empty beer bottles,
And pass his parents that scream at each other in their never ending battle (they didn’t even give him a glance).
To his room;
To where the gun was hidden;
He cried wondering if he would be missed;
He waited, but no one came to stop him;
The gun fell.