Story of a Troubled Boy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
a story in a poem about a really fucked up kid...

Submitted: September 29, 2012

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Submitted: September 29, 2012




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 2017 Phoebe Kishbaugh. All rights reserved.

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