Born Free Poem by chris schwartz

A man breaks down
In the south side of town
Cops swarm,
Like he's some kinda gangster.
Man, he's kneeling
Face to the ground
Them pointing guns,
But he never,
Pointed a gun at the heart
Of His perpetrator.
Just trying to stay on point
Works the Seven Eleven
Day shift or night
Listens to the songs
That the radio's been playing.
He's got a wife and a kid
Yeah, its' his,
Though she claims sometimes
It's from another
When they got lost
A time or two ago.
Seven a.m. brings the day shift
Thank God, the night was
All he could manage
The drive home from work
Gives him little reserve
The situation,
Is more than he can handle.
Lights a cigarette
On the patio
Of their two- bedroom flat
And he listens
For the silence
That finally speaks
To him.
The music that plays
That means so much
In his final days
Screams loudly
Cause no one
Will get this.