He Was a Good Kid
His childhood was volatile
Every morning violence was his alarm clock
And every night he fell asleep
To the lullaby of screaming voices
To the symphony of anger and broken glass
But he was a good kid
When the streets became his parents
The criminals became his brothers
He grew accustomed to a rugged lifestyle
Never safe, never steady
In places where others would quiver with fear
He smiled and laughed
He never had the money to play sports
Or a chance in hell to go to college
He never had a family outing
Or even a decent homecooked meal
And they wondered why there were drugs in his pocket
And they wondered why there was blood on his boots
In a holding cell, he could relax
In prison, he was at home
He smashed peoples faces as if he were watering flowers
He painted the floors red like his fury was artwork
But his conscience was very much alive
Because he was a good kid
Nobody taught him leadership, but he always changed rules that were unfair
Nobody taught him loyalty, but he could always be trusted
Nobody taught him to be kind, but he was thoughtful and caring
Nobody nourished his morality, but he protected the weak
If you could look through the prison orange he wore
If you could see the blood and tears that paved his road
If you could watch his flashbacks
If you could look inside his soul
And see the honest heart that beats inside his chest
You would say:
This man is innocent
Let him go
By Kyle Ezra Kriticos
Copyright © Kyle Kriticos | Year Posted 2011
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment