'The Yob'
The 'White boy', shaved head, leaning on the wall,
Can’t cry, can’t smile, life for him is dead.
Tall towers engulf his world, opportunities are far,
His life is summed up by the cut above is lip,
Etched on his soul, lies another scar
Beat down before, not now he says,
‘I got myself a knife’
So often he comes back in a daze
Friday was high day and they would blaze
witnessed father beat her black and blue,
he thought if she wasn't my mother I would beat her too.
aspirations were existent but they were stamped out even through resistance
wrote a short story through his teacher's insistence
but it wasn't published because no one persisted.
This emotional function is stained, gone black,
‘I never been a boy, I never existed’
He mumbles, his life is as evil as twisted,
Now spends his days, getting high on crack
Ignorant and angry, there is no way back.
His deep blue eyes swallow hope,
And the blade in his hand shouts insecurity,
As the fumes in his fag make him choke,
Labelled a failure, teachers gave up,
His body is corrupt, he has had enough,
Lying their mindless, just like before,
But blood dominates as he is no more,
For the sorrow of it all,
No one really cares,
‘He’s vulgar, racist, he shouts, he swears,
So there he rots labelled ‘The Yob’
As deep in the estate, his mother starts to sob.
