Bastard Baby Boy

March 1st, 1996, 1:41 A.M.
A light is born of the darkness,
And a lamb thrown to the lions.
The bright light is blinding.
Causing a screeching cry to reign across the room, sound waves thrashing like hurricanes in your ears.
A child is born.
A beautiful mistake, a bastard baby boy.
His eyes glowing, gleaming, plastered with the innocence of beauty, innocence of imagination.
Yes, this bastard baby boy's eye were born wide open, unprepared and eager to recieve the world.
He was much too young to know the cost, the frozen sting of the world's winter after its summer-like ultraviolet rays warming his smooth brown skin.
Where he was going there was no warmth, no sun, no love.
His world was barred off and neglected,
His rattles rang with the jingle of perscription bottles,
He knew only the smell of liquor and marijuana,
In this hell he didn't have the voice to even call it home;
Here in hell it's pick and choose how you lose.
Here it's not a problem, here it's not uncommon, the needle in your skin, the lines and razors, that "self-medicating" suicide.
This bastard baby boy learned to carry the weight of neglect.
Beautiful brown eyes weighted with the bags of sorrow, forever blackened.
The dead winter is coming, the animals gone into hiding, the first pedals are falling, yet this, this is only the beginning.
These eyes grew older. They learned to laugh and play.
They learned to live, love, and cry.
At only 7 years young, the world recorded behind the camera lense had changed.
Why? Why was he born into pain?
How? How can he escape the everlasting rain?
He sees this world with eyes open wide and feels such shame.
See by 14 years he only saw pain, he felt death and anger, hopeless and enraged.
He'd seen little girls killed for street fame and cocaine.
You see he knew these streets were stained, stained, stained with the blood of the boys who once had it all, but fell through the roof.
These boys who, ran up and down hills for thrills, and never worried about whose family was just killed.
These boys who, sacrificed their own rhymes to do crime and earn time, or go home to wine and dine their sorrowed thoughts, lost in time, with a marijuana dime, what has happened to these boys who once shined?
And yet life goes on.
This bastard baby boy with brown eyes is full of sighs and silent cries with the magnitude of a thunderstorm.
His iris has adapted the absence of color.
Behind the lenses of the eyes it's warm like a hypothermic sting,
His heart frostbitten, swollen and black, his world out of wack, his life is on the fritz, each day his head splits, it's far too easy for one lonesome soul to grow weary in a world that is sick and darkness roams thick.
At age 16, an omega wolf howls to the moon in hopes salvation come soon, his mind has grown weak under the weight of this hazy gloom.
A bottle hangs from his finger tips, cold to the touch to these hands that have long since gone numb.
He falls to his knees, among headlights, bottle but a stones throw away.
But this light is blinding.
March 1st, 1996, 1:41A.M.
A beautiful brown bastard baby boy is born.
October 9th, 2012, 11:42 P.M.
A lamb thrown to the lions.
This gloomy maned, wild, economically biased, unforgiving, and ruthless beast has had its meal.
But this wont be its last.