• Cold, And dead.
    Heartless, And full.
    Afraid, And alone.
    A fearful child is the killer.
    No one knows what is inside.
    Lied, And pained.
    Deep, And drained.
    As he cry out in pain, We all just laugh and sing.
    Dancing at the life just took, For he was not, But just a crook.
    Taking his last breath, Hated and fated to die, He cried but his last tear.
    Exposed for what he truly did, But not did he take any life.
    Innocence is what he plead, For when he laid there cold and dead, For who was it that truly cared?




    Description:
    I came up with this when thinking what right we truly have in deciding other peoples fates for them. People are put on death row because they commit crimes. But how many will turn out to be innocent? And when? When they're killed? Before? Years after? And how many people truly care? When you think they're killers, and they're put on death row, how many people do you think are joyed? I'm not. I never will be. Choosing when someone dies, even if they did something cruel, or unreasonable, does that mean that it gives us the right to decide whether or not someone lives or dies? I don't. And I never will. What about you?