Statistic. 

The little boy,His life, like a puzzle

Full of pieces 

Too big for his hands 

To put together 

And too small for his mothers. 
The little boy 

Who tries to build his life up

But the very one 

That should be 

supplying the tools

Can’t afford them 

And the very ones

That should be helping him

Are tearing him down. 
The little boy 

Forced to climb 

Without a safety net beneath him 

No one there to catch him

Should he fall. 
No real anyone to care for him 

No one cheering him on from the stands. 

No one to give a damn. 
The little boy 

Once so soft and beautiful,

Hardened by circumstance 

Now a man. 
Now a man with a gun 

Now a man with a round through

the right side of his temple.
Now a statistic. 

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One thought on “Statistic. 

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