We’re the stains on the pavement, the platform, the tiles.
We’re the end of the line, on lips without smiles.
We’re the headlines at breakfast, the stats now online.
We’re the cut short of Croydon, Hackney, ___side.
We go borough to borough, rake scars across time.
We’re cliques of post-mothers, collectively crying.
We’re locked in the rhythm, with fresh cuts each night.
Young blood on a blade, with no end in sight.
You’re the problem.
You’re the victim.
You’re the last chance you’ve got.
Do you put down your brother, or lift yourself up?
Having witnessed youth gang violence first hand in South London I wrote this piece out of frustration. An endless cycle, a tragic waste.
Image created using MidJourney Ai. © Rob Swain
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