November 13 Poem by Alex Grove

He was just a boy from the working class
With big blue eyes and a pumping heart

Working hard at being good
But his basic soul was stained not pure
Here's the story of that poor son

Faceless dealers, ragged killers from his own world of demise
They don't scare him, he has his own disguise.

In the shadow he's always walked
And there he'll stay until the fall
In sleeping pills and flawed medicines

From pure boredom into eternal grace
he holds his soul to his bones
What would he do when they'll forget his name?

He crawled from his door in the north way down to the heart of Le Marais
Trying to get his life back on the road

Whistling songs of crooked misfortunes and of timeless melodies
The poor son has only venom in his blood

His vices and his virtues drowned in a bottle of champagne
He looked up but the sky was ripped to shreds

He saw an old man down the road,
Looking carefully to some photos,
His eyes were wet and and his jacket
Was stained of a bloodshot life

Loves and pains, joys and sorrows
And everything he could remember
Were tainted or washed away
On that cold night of November

He arrived at destination and he put down on his knees
Looking into the barrel of his gun

Making his emotions bleed
and crying his mother's name in need
That's the end of this fallen boy.