there used to be a shy, young man
living four doors down from mine.
he never seemed too hurt to me,
and he told me he was fine.
I shouldn't have believed him
but I didn't have a choice.
you can't listen to cries for help
if the crier has no voice.
he was from the south side
where bullets fly like stars,
painting the skies red every night
through windows, skin, and cars.
a girl lived on the north side
slightly to the west.
I had never met her,
but he said she was the best.
when he talked about this girl,
she was his rock, his moon, his sun.
she was all he'd ever dreamed of
and their romance had begun.
I saw him outside all the time
daydreaming down the block.
his story was a timebomb
and I wish I saw the clock.
I never saw this girl of his,
but she made him someone new.
he smiled, happy and in love
and I knew she loved him too.
he finally seemed eager
to learn, to live, to leave.
kids don't make it out of here
but I let him believe.
city kids are city kids.
they never travel far.
they will never see a garden,
just concrete, blood, and tar.
city kids don't breathe fresh air.
they smoke ****, cigs, cigars.
I wish that things were different
but this is how they are.
I wish that the boy four doors down
was able to be freed,
but just like all the other boys,
he had to stay and bleed.
that boy would sneak out late at night,
walking alone in silence.
he'd travel to the northwest side
with no fear of the violence.
every night, he'd stay awake.
his eyelids felt weighed down.
he didn't seem to notice.
I never saw him frown.
every day, he could be seen
doing what he always did.
with deals and deaths and drive-bys,
he didn't get to be a kid.
but none of that mattered
as soon as nighttime came.
he saw his girl when it got dark.
every night, it was the same.
until one night, the boy got stopped
and told to stay away.
the northwest side was not his side,
but he could not obey.
their romance turned to horror
and their love turned into fear.
I wish it didn't go this way,
but the end was clearly near.
city boys and city girls
never see what we call "fame."
they don't show up in newspapers,
and no one asks their names.
city boys die every day,
with bullets in their brains.
no one hears their cries for help.
no one feels their pain.
the young man living on my block
fell in love and saw no danger.
on the south side, he was sweet and shy.
away from home, he was a stranger.
he never made it out of here.
he didn't get to finish growing.
he went to see his perfect girl
but never got where he was going.
the next morning, his girl was told
how they found him on the ground.
she took a rope and went to bed
and that's where she was found.
******, pain, and gunshots
and a girl hung from her ceiling.
this city saw it all and more
and still, we aren't healing.
I think about him often now,
that boy from four doors down.
I wonder where he'd be today
if he had left this town.
two graves dug in the dirt too soon
are all that's left of them today.
you won't ever hear their stories
now that they've gone away.
a boy with hope still in his eyes
and dreams still in his mind
was stolen so abruptly
before it was his time.
a girl with love still in her heart
and faith still in her smile
was punished with a death sentence
but never had a trial.
he was a modern Romeo
and she was Juliet.
they fell in love and lost their lives
not even grown up yet.
a tragedy with pain and loss,
a true Shakespearean drama.
this is the kind of story
that leaves us all with trauma.
once, there was a boy and girl
who ended when they bled,
like characters inside a play
that they had never read.
they were taught how to survive,
who would hurt them, where to look.
they knew of pain and grief and death
but never learned to read a book.
