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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Bars Let me confess I was there when he died I kept quiet when he cried I looked in his eyes as he was fried When the police came I lied About my sight of the event that changed my life It was hard to say exactly how it happened At first it was about the door I had opened I went in there with the intention to steal A few cookies and change so I could give My 2 year old son Shintsho (Change) Change? Yes his name means change I had never given him anything I’m proud of before That had to change All he was always told was that “Your father is a good for nothing bastard who is just a sperm donor” That was partly true I had nothing to my name No Job,no home, no income Just selling of fruits on the street To pay for my shelter and water Waking up every morning Pushing the trolley everyday,Given a ticket everyday The Metro police taking away the only link Between my Son and I Making me hate every moment on the street They confescated the goods because I didn’t have a permit My pain has caused me to drift away from what I innitially got your attention for Why? Why ? Why did I open that door? I wouldn’t have witnessed his terrible murder He was burnt because he refused to open the empty safe Why keep an empty safe Safe? Why save a cashless save? Didn’t he think about the insurance Why fight to keep safe what can be replaced Money has become more valuable than life The fire in his eyes Burnt permanent marks in my mind The fighting spirit he had showed he was one of a kind The kind of person who believes money more valuable than his own life. Don’t get me wrong the guys who brutally murded him Were wrong ,they were not supposed to take what didn’t belong to them I confess that I sat behind the shelves I watched him die even when they were out of the store I was still in shock But that doesn’t justify I let an innocent man die Today I stand behind these bars guilty of arson My fingerprints were all over the man’s clothes A few months before that incident I went to the post office To get my grant money but my fingerprints didn’t match I had burnt them during a fire at my shack Fire was following me like I was petrol These flames are stronger than me I’ll continue writing this poem when I can its too painful to even pour out my thoughts here behind these bars! By Slashfire © Slashfire Poetry 2010-2013 All rights reserved
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