Untitled
by Michael Marchand
You hear the shots ring out,
From the corner of the street.
The boy still holds the gun,
With a dead body at his feet.

You see the flashing lights,
You hear the sirens wail.
As another mother's son,
Is on his way to jail.

How can we let this happen,
In our own neighborhood.
Instead of drugs and gangs,
Let's teach them something good.



I am always looking for suggested names to my untitled poems, if
you have any ideas, share them with me.

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