16 Years Old
Sixteen years old on my way to the pen,
Life without parole will I see the streets again.
Whatever happened to my childhood, grew up too fast,
Gangbangin’, hangin’, slangin’, chasing small cash.
Not a juvenile no more forced to being a man,
Situation got me stuck with no helping hand.
I see the tears in my Mom’s eyes, she’s hurting inside,
To raise her baby boy right with all her might she tried.
Product of my environment I drifted away,
Now I ask God for forgiveness 5 times a day.
But I don’t cry, now suburban kids in situations like mine,
And the whole world saying life is too much time.
I made a promise to my mom that I would maintain,
Stay true to my name and eat this pain.
Will I see the streets again and shed this constant pain,
They gave me life without parole how the hell am I supposed to change.
Sometimes I feel like this is a fairy tale,
But when I look into my own eyes I recognize it’s really hell.
Sometimes I want to shed a life’s worth of tears,
Because dying in prison is a young man’s worst fear.
– Chris Selectman