Somebody’s Child

tarringovaughan — Thu, 26 Dec 2013 21:47:24 +0000

Youth whistles his name — twelve years of life balancing
between eroded curbs just on the edge of Hancock street.
He wears grown man shows on his feet and abandonment
on his mind as he studies parental strangers with a false toughness
but in his eyes is the vision of a child brought up in an
environment of roughness/forced to grow up too fast
by the elements of survival and a reality he fears he won’t outlast.

He is somebody’s child as in his eyes are the tears of a childhood lost/
hidden behind the interpretation of graffiti stained walls
and beneath the silence of empty playgrounds where innocence
has deserted and left him swinging freely and exposed
to the winds of crime that slowly blows him down a path
he is too young to witness…too young to understand
and too young to find his own way out because

he is somebody’s child out there roaming alone searching
for something to recognize as a dream. He hopes…but finds
himself on the daily hustle because he feels he has no choice/
his cries have gone unheard and there is fear within his voice
as his heart echoes to be held by the hands of love;

and he is somebody’s child wishing he had a place to call home;
a place where his thoughts are defined and his tears
touched by meaning; a place where he is embraced and a place
that recognizes his face

all he wants is to be seen
because he is somebody’s child…he is our child.

A Poem For Progress

tarringovaughan — Wed, 04 Dec 2013 00:07:20 +0000

If I wrote the best poem in the world
I would dry the tears on the silent neglected streets
where lamposts blink the sounds of destruction,
and in the eyes of poverty I would stare into each child’s
vision and inpire in them the hope, strength
and victory of success. I would wake up drug infested minds
who crawl the curbs of crime and instill in them
a new rehabilitation of self-worth so they, themselves,
could end the cycle of decaying hearts.
I would touch each hand who reaches out for healing
and warm their souls with a new feeling
of recognition
so that they could thrive as humanitarians
and lead the way towards new paths of hope and new roads
leading the lost to revealing destinations of definition

And if I wrote the best poem in the world
I would allow my fingers to become the voice of dedication
as my ink tells the stories of the many lives captured and awakened
by the reality of dreams like the little girl who
sits alone in her bedroom afraid to turn on the lights because
the reflection staring back at her in the shadows
whisper to her that she is not good enough to be beautiful
so she cries hides her since of self until the day
life lifts the mask off her heart and the spirit within her
becomes a new voice of beauty and pride and now she is a girl who
walks past mirros with her head held high
because she found the stength in self to reach her endless sky
and through her inspiration a new fragrance of worth is embraced
as she walks past the boy who
sits on blood stained stairs lost in his own home.
He looks down at the scars on his legs from the abuse
of a father who is barely there–
afraid to share his tears because the world
doesn’t want to hear a young man’s cry. He feels empty
but inside of him are words/many words of value
and his thoughts begin to flow out into streams of strength
as he becomes his own man no longer unwritten
because he now fits/in this world of achievers and believers
and yet another verse italicized in the best poem
in the world; the poem called life where progress is more than just
an unfulfilled dream.

Tarringo T. Vaughan » A Different Kind Of Blues

Somebody’s Child

A Poem For Progress