Poor little black boy he’s the victim’s son, His father lays dead under the misters gun, He doesn’t know rather to cry or run, The entire neighborhood watches in stun. He saw the whole scene so his mind is numb, The suspect in the crime he trust, Drives away in a police car uncuffed, His uniform means that the crime is just, The boy gets instructed to remain quiet and tough, Dependent of a black man portrayed violent and rough, Neighbors marching rioting with signs that read enough, of the system treating them like minorital dust, Laws not abided by those who are corrupt, Dream of what the boy inspired to be are now on disrupt, The thought of being an officer brings disgust, now the sight of a badge makes his emotions erupt, Not one positive thought pertaining will construct, this family tries to be up lifting but have no luck, His goal is revenge and its fueled with lust, Riding pass the killers house by bus, Haaunted by flashbacks of that bullets thrust, That pierced his fathers body by gut, Vengeance for such violent pain is a must Lying in his pool of blood reminded when he sees punch, A case that never even was reviewed by a judge, Remains in a file in a cabinet with growing rust, He graduates college leaving with his degree and a grudge, Hired by the government part of politicalclubs, Promotions lead him closer until he has no one above, Possessing the power to where when and what, well respected and popular and socially the buzz, learns that daddy’s killer now has cancer in his lungs, makes arrangements for the killer’s VIP invitation to brunch, later they’d discover his vehicle with a body in the trunk, but it wouldn’t be him the boy that’s now a man had reserved some fun, terroe and anxiety followed him since young, retired and unhealthy he wouldn’t apologize when he learned of who was, his memory was affected by a driver who was drunk resulting up in a coma at a hospital for six months he woke up to no family, no survivors onle one what was left of his brain dissolved the more he drunk, when the boy told him the story he replied raising his thumb, confused and unaffected starring blank while growing dumb, the boy fell to his knees and started drinking rum, the defeat was over and unknowingly he was running in a race that he had won, feeling like a failure of an equation with no sum.
Calculated premeditation is the sound to your drum but is the music really playing once the hands become numb, the musician became tense and the grasp to the sticks are undone, only you can still hear it like it’s live on rerun, the room is actually silent, and your past is not unplugged, your only tuning out the present, which impairs what’s really right in front, the lesson here to learn is put away the old, and use the now while its young. Don’t depreciate the value because the time will overcome.
Once it has expired, you will have lost more than once. The boy aged more years than his dad but he wasn’t living so the stories sad, he didn’t value the extra years that he had, no matter how it happened he wasn’t coming back, neither is all the time that he’s grown to surpass, he could’ve help the others who traveled the same path, celebrate all the good and let the karma strike the bad, never surrender all your laugh, for a future you unseen how can you even have a plan?
POETTA'S THERAPEUTIC POETRY 
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