This poem was from a while back, but I always wanted to share it.
A small freckled boy at the ripe age of nine,
Turns on his monitor to help pass the time.
Sets up Street Fighter and selects Xiaoyu Ling,
When up from downstairs comes a violent scream.
A thump and a crash and a thud and a boom,
He raises the volume to silence the room.
Faded insults and jabs, hit after hit,
Merge into the sounds of ear-splitting 8-bit.
He plays countless rounds on his console toy,
Constant bickering of parents familiar to the boy.
From the lower floor; a yell and a bang,
And like minutes before it is silent again.
The boy heads downstairs, worry littering his face,
Like the glass shards strewn all over the place.
And his mom standing over his dad on the floor,
The ground stained around him with blood and his gore.
Mom rushes to son, calming his mind,
Leaving the father unconscious behind.
She leads him upstairs, lets him know its okay.
Life will be better since he's not in the way.
Up up, down down, B, A, start.
He goes back to the game while his world falls apart.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry crate
Poetrymost of my poetry tells the story of someone struggling, but rarely of myself open to suggestions
