(Sometimes, money matters are so worse, and sad...)
I remember the cry of a child
While the night was still young
She was just a poor little kid
Living across the neighborhood
Fatherless she grew, for
As a child she never knew,
Of so many of her mother's
God forsaken friends visiting
Her anger was visible
As she dared to call
The very young kids
In the neighborhood
"Shut-up ye A$$holes."
Was she even ten, or
May be eight or nine
With pent up anger
She would hit just to
Make her point, the
Rude kid that was
What can a poor soul say
When each night she has
To stay up until late
Just so she could sleep
Alone in her own bed
The kid was tired each day
There was nothing her mom
Would protect her from
She was a daily scape goat
For those who would pay
What weeping was that,
I did not call them who guard
It did not occur to me that
She was their bread winner
Each and every night, in need
Two days later, they left
Never seen in any town
Or city that I have known,
May be the mother knew
That I was to call someone
Who would protect her
From the dingy sad home
Wonder why the high school
Kids, visited them during day
As the woman stayed out
And the beds banged all day
She had yet to pay her bills
On some days she would lay..
Years have passed..
Little does one know..
Of closed windows
And Unknowns
Until it is not..
