Heavy wrist pinch can’t breath
No one's coming home tonight
Bed sits cold empty
Stars fade peek light
Third strike breaks a family
Different when it’s powder
Weeping as the verdict is signed
Ink dries a family shattered
A mop of curls eyes on the page
He asked “Is jail a good place to be?”
I asked him why he’d even ask
The answer that I knew hung heavily
“My dad’s in jail, gets three a day”
Said straight, eyes down, unwavering
“Sometimes my mom can’t make dinner
And I go to bed hungry”
Thug. Dealer. Hood. Thief.
I only see a seven year old
Homework’s off the radar
Another phone call from the principal
Inside he draws lions and trees
Outside draws sideways glances
Forced into a box by people
Who never gave any chances