Urban Tragedy - By Mizeta Moon

Kids from broken homes

Wander city streets

Alone and cold, but hardened,

To the turmoil of the world.

Babies having babies,

Doing downers, taking speed.

Mommy doesn’t want them,

Daddy’s never home,

Now there’s nothing left,

But hit the streets to roam.

Lost souls in the night,

Little kids from broken homes.

No tears to cry, just want to die,

Love is something in a book,

They never learned to read.

Just turn and walk away,

Don’t take a second look.

Kids from broken homes,

Little hobos in the park,

Drinking beer and puking,

Beatings in the dark,

No one left to heal them,

And their broken souls.

Wasted little strangers,

Grandma used to know.

Dirty little mobsters,

Someone had to go.

Now the streets are full of,

Kids from broken homes.


It’s all a race against time.

How long will my heart beat?

Lungs work?

Legs still move?

How long till my eyes no longer see,

And what is me,

Is but a fading memory?

We wither and pale,

Beneath the ravages of time,

And our own self abuse.

A constant inexorable treadmill,

Leading to the grave.

From whence we came,

To where we go,

Who knows the answer?

Only that it is so.

We live, and in so doing,

Are dying every moment. 

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