Crime

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All I have to do is paint a portrait of somebody being dead and he or she dies in real life.I've painted portraits of my former boss, my in-laws and I also painted a portrait of my wife.
Could You September 11, 2018 ~ Tuesday I’m gripping tightly Onto that which makes me all I ever was and needed The words I heard and heeded
The church bells all are clanging Like the beating of a drum, But still my heart feels empty Like a sky without a sun   I tried to call the warden To show him what I’d done
She needed someone to lead her out  of the fire but instead she got folks who just wanted to lock up the arsonist. Was grabbing the perpetrator in a timely fashion more agreeable than saving his victims?
It has taught me expression, but not through hate, anger, or ridicule. It has taught me to show my feelings, without foul language. It has given me an outlet, to express my hate towards society.
You were my fellow soldier in a darkened city and when we both got popped and dropped and rolled over all bloody and gritty and the cops came and asked everything over sirens blaring: "what were you wearing"
The memory of the day it all went wrong: she had been with her husband when   the ground was ripped from beneath her. She was with her husband when   the detectives slapped the cuffs on him.
The question I ask myselfWhy they look at youAs if you're half nakedWhy they look at youAs if you're a piece of cake baked
Rainy days with a cigarette in hand. No better feeling Outside water taps on the roof In the living room smoke floats up to caress the ceiling While the poet just sits. Aloof
Since when does one become "evil"? Is it my pride that broods you? Or my age of wisdom and fairness No one Not even my little sister Could ever succeed?  
Journalism was my focus But nowadays media stories leave me hopeless Oh, what a world! When babies die, innocent lives are slain A person can shoot up a crowd then plead they're insane
I see my people walking through the streets covered in a graffiti of shame and pain, A depression that came from the time of apartheid, Walls covered in memories of frustration,
It’s time to stop chasing the money, cars, clothes and society’s materialistic goals. There is no stability in those nor Kim’s big fat homes. Why not within your means? Then you will see there’s more to be Than on TV.
She's breaking quickly with each passing moment. Her hands are shaking for he is potent.   She's crying as softly as a sleeping baby. Her mind was blurred as she was lying
We live in a world where football is important Where balls getting deflated get a fifteen-minute news segmentAnd military personnel getting shot by Al-Qaeda or ISIS get five
"Hello this is the Plum Wood Police Department. How may I help you?" "I'm calling because there is a dead woman in the woods by highway 77. She has no face or eyes." "Who am I'm speaking with?"
There are boots in the dark behind him in the night like the stone cold end to a brave, stupid flight   The boy runs quick as only a boy can. This little boy still thinks he’s a man.
The ugly duckling named vitor wanted to shoot up his ducling school because he had  no friends and he hacked peoples computers to make them shut down so he wanted to \
What makes you happy? Is it waiting for innocent victims in a dark alley? To rob them off their security? Or is it waking up early, And make your hands dirty, As you toil for your family?  
I hear piercing screams from the burning village. From scared women, adults and underage. Oh! The terror of this pillage! I am standing behind the muzzle of a smoking gun, And I can’t stop firing, “Bam! Bam!”
I think it's officially my lifeI hear original narratives and think of all the people going through strifeIt's plaguing their lives and here I am writing about my #FirstWorldProblems
~Spruce Street~ Loud and noisy Neighbors talk and arguing A playground two blocks down the street The scorching fire of the summer heat Dismannered teens Runs on people property
I had a math teacher  When I was in eighth grade We' d hang out at his house And play video games   I thought it was a little strange I thought he was weird But, he let us smoke weed
They say he is a product Of his environment. Stastics show he will Reoffend, He will be regurgitated By the prison digestive system, Come in as ground beef, Shit out, repeat.
Food. Water. Love. Hope. People say these things keep them alive. And they do. They make life worth living. They give hu- mans the spark they need to continue on. But when they’re gone,
I have been beaten, broken, and blamed I have been disregarded and ashamed but by the digging through the light of the untamed
A crime each day Took care of by people What should we pay? Should we go more to the steeple?   Why do we do such things? How can we be mean? Hear the church bell ring
I was one year oldCould barely see my toesthrough the fat thighs I was barely three years oldCouldn't even see myselfthrough the mirror above the sink.
did you think to say "free my brother" while he was doing his dirt gang banging,drug slanging,and selling that work you never thought to say  "free my brother" of the chains he's bound with
  Each one of them is a suspect, The air is thick with suspense. The verdict wasn’t decided yet, So the anxiety of all is immense.   They all look so uneasy,
A man broke into my house and killed my entire family.Because of his corrupt lawyer, he was found not guilty.He killed another family and was found not guilty a second time.
One day I'll catch you pick pocketing my chest cavity. I'll catch you reaching past flesh without calamity. I'll catch you, hands stained with red taboo,
Through the Time looking for the better days
BY STREET VIOLENCE I lost my cousin
We watch this time go by And maybe we grow All we can do is sigh And say, "Where did the day go?"   The Clock goes tick-tock-tick And it just makes us sick The way it perseveres
You preach your theories, teach your lies.
I discover myself contemplating my being as I linger in an abyss of corruption. Hiding from the mournfulness that intimidates me as I sleep. I was never cherished, I was no favorite of anything.
From peer pressure to the grave,
(Situation in Ferguson, inspired by https://www.facebook.com/JayFleadaddieJon who wrote C.O.P,Criminals of Permission)   
Note: A short story based of of the Warrior Cats book series written by Erin Hunter. 
Why is love such a crime? Why must people aim hatred towards love? When a man holds another's hand they look away in disgust
The crack of a cackling bullet Shattered the life and the sanctum of thought Which held me up, assisted and created me But left me when I needed it the most   The scream of a dying soul
He stared into her beautiful eyes, even as the tears of slowly lost love fell.   But he did not care. He knew what he wanted. And he took it, no remorse.   Blinded by
Everyday there's a crime in the body... The killer strikes on whoever it needs Never gives you a sign on the next person it feeds When hurt or failed or pressured it bleeds Bleeds the emotions that cause you to die
A perfect picture of one’s life A perfect answer to one’s crime.  
A toast that shall never exist
All color and warmth escapes her skin seeping into the  lush green grass that  softly caresses her tear stained cheeks. Cheeks streaked with  with dark paint that 
Heating the cold Braving the dark Being bold Seeking the unknown Years pass Memories fade Gone; but never forgotten? The old cliche Stacks of files Silent whispers Read me
Bang Bang  3 o clock in the morning gunshots going off  Doesnt keep me up Im numb to it Bang Bang  I close my eyes and go back to sleep  Wake up, and turn on the news
Wait... Stop... Please? I beg you to reconsider You're beginning to fade away Already one foot in your grave   This life will get you Pit you in the middle between lions and bears
 The Seeing Man, A chaste man displaced, Saunters through life Without a single expression On his pallor white face.   The Seeing Man Never utters a cross word He feeds the hungry
How does he construe these thoughts that make him act in heinous ways Ways that few would dare to dream for the fear of dark reality How does he acquire his weapons of greif and pain and evil
What's hard about being an american, Is when I see a fellow brother begging from a can,  When people pass by just because they can, when they cant even spare a cent, when that could help with someone's rent.
I smell the savory cardboard box From across the room..
Its crazy how mothers and fathers Bury their children now days One day they conceive em And then their fading away Out of your life And out of your way Got police knocking At your door
You never had to hit my grandmom You probably thought your shouts were unheard So you smacked her until your hand throbbed You never gave her love or concern So know, we're better without you.  
My community is not a community. For I see and hear about more violence then anything else on my t.v screen. Growing up in the jungles of New Orleans, everyone is for himself;
I once did wield a sword of light and a crested shield, these I carried into fight society's worst nightmare. I gained, after long, the upper hand a simple trade it were,
i have my own memories brewed with sin,i did it for my family and i would do it again,one day i spoke with god, i knew it was him,"Son im going to take you where few have been."he took my hand and appered before a huge mansion,dont explain yoursel
This is a money hungry nation and without it you can't succeed,  People havin to suffer for things they need,  Yet the priveleged prosper from their greed,  I'm stuck in quicksand while the rich go full speed, 
Seventeen and in pain. I swear im going insane.  Im living in a society where you'll never be accepted. You better count your blessings. You'll never be protected.
The city of “Brotherly Love” By: Laura Hernandez   As our founder father had dreamt The city of “Brotherly Love”
My only crime is my religion, So my sentence is severe; They’ll declare the death penalty To my presence on this hemisphere. They say I’ll have an impartial jury, In this Land of the Free,
Tell me, Muse, of the boy with the red backpack Walking with a swagger in the diversity-filled Queens. Tell me how the bus would take him through the noise To his serene, tree-lined block just off Hillside Avenue,
Countless words are left unspoken, Tiny children’s hearts are broken. The moon is faultless, bright as day, Whispers are heard from miles away People lye silently, afraid to die,
“…I’m sure there’ll be more to cry for, There’ll be more for us to see…”
The Windy City Where guns haunt innocent souls This city is cold The world claims to care With more killings than the war It is hard to sleep
Creeping through the silent streets Hood pulled far over his face Relishing in tonight’s take He has fresh, warm blood on his hands He isn’t shaking, completely composed
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