by Poetry99
© 2001 Dorothy E. Scott, all rights reserved
Little child, Why do you pack such a wicked
gun?
You carry it as if a battle needs to be won.
Is that a sharp knife sheathed on you side?
That you embellish to heal your wounded pride?
What happened to the innocent gaze in your
eye?
Does the anger conceal the goodness with a lie?
Whose blood stains the red band you wear?
What young victim's cross does your shoulders bear?
Your faded green jacket displays a symbol of your
gang's name.
Little child, this senseless hate only opens the gate to eternal
shame!