Little Kenny

Sometimes I put my pen to pad and a short story comes out…sometimes the beginning of a novel that I never finish comes out.

Today…a poem came out…I call it “Little Kenny” for lack of a better title:

Little Kenny found a pistol in his daddy’s closet.

He was only three years old but old enough to hold the handle.

Pick the pistol up, stare into the barrel.

The sorrow is he pulled.

Red on his apparel now he laying in a pool of his own blood as the shot rang ’round the room.

On the floor is where his nanny found him.

On the phone, 911, she dialing.

Mother crying, dad distraught cuz he’s at fault.

A year later, talks about divorce, of fucking course.

In the middle of debacle there’s still trouble with their teen.

Who lost his little brother and mourned by smoking weed.

Got a PhD in heroin, became a petty fiend.

Robbing dealers with a kitchen knife, becoming just a bum.

A slave to heavy drugs.

They found him in a hotel room, syringe still in his arm.

His heart wasn’t beating.

But the pain? It lived on.

This a story ’bout some carelessness and what it can do.

Heed the warnings in this poem or it can happen to you.

THE END.

A little demented but like I said…I let my pen write for me. What comes out, comes out.

So it goes.

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