Once there was a little boy
Who always got his way,
“I want it, mother, I want it now!”
Is all he had to say.
This little boy, as he grew up
Was always spoiled rotten
But the price for this, though it seems small,
Is that he always was forgotten.
He’d try in vain, and try again
To capture mom’s attention
But all this ever seemed to get him
Was a beating, or a school detention.
So this little boy, this little minx
Devised a master plot
To ensure that in the future he would
Never be forgot!
He went up to his room and then
He locked the door up tight
And worked out all the details
Every day and every night.
Then after five long, thought-filled days
The boy emerged with glee
With a slimy, Cheshire smile
That all the house could clearly see.
The servants all looked puzzled
At the child’s newfound joy
He looked like a kid on Christmas
That had unwrapped his favorite toy.
But they all just did their duties
Like it was just another day
For they had no way of knowing
What the boy had come out to say.
He marched up all four flights of stairs
Until he reached the door
Which he opened to reveal his father
Having sex with his office whore.
“Son! Get out!” His father roars
Pulling up his zipper
And before she even says a word
He sends out the slutty stripper.
“That isn’t mother!” The boy erupts
Glaring at his father
Waiting for an apology
But the man doesn’t even bother.
Enraged and hurt beyond repair
The boy pulls out his gun
Before he’d had his reservations
But now this would be fun!
One two three four
He shoots him for his mother
Five six seven eight
And then he pops another.
His father lays upon the floor
Surrounded by his blood
Gushing from the many wholes
A sticky, crimson flood.
He shakes his head and turns his heel
His task just halfway done
Who knew that killing those he loathed
Would turn out to be so fun.
Down the flights of stairs again
Then up a couple more
He stops and takes a breath and then
He knocks upon her door.
“Who is it? What?!” His mother screams
In her drunken haze
She stumbles out, with bloodshot eyes
And a vacant, junky gaze.
“What? WHAT?” She asks her son
Who is shaking with his anger
She doesn’t see his loaded gun
Or sense the pending danger.
“Can I come in?” The boy proceeds
She numbly nods her head
He walks inside then does the deed…
He shoots her til she’s dead.
The boy was just fifteen years old
But he’d simply had enough…
Hey…no one said that life was easy…
Or that love was never tough.
Off to juvie then off to jail
Sentence: twenty five to life
But before they even got him there
He left the world by way of knife.
© Copyright 2016 Phoebe Kishbaugh. All rights reserved.
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
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