Futility

Futility

Poor boy
walks the streets,
hands in pockets,
clothes in rags,
slouching shoulders,
scuffed up shoes.
in the gutter
ends of fags;

Given a choice
what life would he choose?
What lives are there
for a teenage boy?
Security of being a thug,
or really trying.
Escaping the world
by taking a drug
or even by dying.

Suicide?
Or even worse,
because of pride
fighting a war.
Straight living of course
with all its false hopes,
urging on
with increasing speed
the unsuspecting youth.

Unpleasant, untrue
no it can be found.
Look around,
after all
you will agree,
life's there
in all its forms.
Which are you?
Which is he?

Nobody knows,
but all can see,
what is the sense
Of writing down
thoughts or feelings
now and then?
How many people can use a pen
to its full value?