Icsis Watson Poems

She had blood on her hands, shirt, and pants.
She did it, she did what she had too.
She was outside, it was a warm night.
She sat beside the dead man and talked to him as if he was alive.
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My father was an alcoholic that tried to drink his sorrows away. My mom, a battered wife. I was the innocent child that had to live the life as a ghetto hood rat. Stereotypes started when I was young. I was never going to amount to nothing and be just like my mother and father.
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