My mother is a junkie, strung out on crystal meth.
I don’t know who my father is; my mom thinks it was Seth.
My brothers, John and Jack, I am raising on my own.
I am only nine years old but I am often home alone.
What I wouldn’t give for a mother not like mine;
one that doesn’t work the streets or smells like sour wine.
I know she’s out there somewhere and not just in my dreams.
She tucks me in at night and quiets my nightmare screams.
But for me, it’s gangs and crime and poverty in the hood.
I’ll probably die a horrible death, but I would change things if I could.
I don’t make the rules of law and those that do don’t care.
They punish me for trying to live, the cops are everywhere.
When I came into this world, I was born to a junkie whore.
And those that think I’m worthless, every one of them knows the score.
I will never get to grow up or make something of myself.
My dreams of a different mother, I’ve placed high upon a shelf.
So when I am on the news for getting shot for stealing bread,
you’ll just say that I’m a thug and you’ll be glad that I am dead.
Shelby I. Courtland
©2015 Shelby I. Courtland