Where in this world would he run to escape the wrath of his father's gun? Feels nothing more of peace than sorrow,bet me a penny that for him there'll be no tomorrow. Many a mistake was made, twice as much as he's felt a breath take. But death is something he'll outrun, two for a sherry, if not more for one. Call him a boat he'll rise above sea, although he's still stranded, drowning in his own misery. A mother's call can wake the dead but with no reply she puts a bullet in her head. It wasn't his fault, he tried to scream. But no sound was heard, he'd cut through the seams. Maybe one day they'll meet again but for now all he loves will be the rain. Those tears they fall from heaven and back. Unlike his poor mother, who still lies, pale and tender, forever asleep in the wrack.
I don't know whether to call this a poem or not as there's no stanza's or syllable count. It was just something I wrote (: Please excuse my lack of good punctuation..