From a farm town they grew.
Daddy was a gambler, Drinker,
Cheater
Momma was mentally ill.
She smoked on the porch and counted the clouds.
Wishing to get away.
Daddy would stumble home mad after losing all his money.
The children would scatter,
Faster than their attacker.
One of them would grow up to be an almost track star.
The only tracks he does now are running up his arms.
Born into poverty self abuse is the only way to be.
Some may get out of it like his sister.
Who found a light at the bottom of a bottle.
But little Ricky didn't make it past twenty.
He always had good aim, who knew he would use it towards his head in blow away his thoughts?
Down in the ground he rots.
His mother soon to be.
Poor baby she wailes, down into the grave she dives.
What a tragedy this is.
Maybe the family down the street will have a better story to end with.