R.I.P

R.I.P to the son of Ms. Jones
The bullet had no name
But still claimed Tyrone as its own.

R.I.P to the son of Ms. Jones
The straight 'A' student
Who was also captain of the basketball team
And who was graduating in the fall.

R.I.P to the son of Ms. Jones
Who stepped foot on the hard streets of Harlem one night
Just to get milk for his mother.
Instead,
The mother of Tyrone Jones ended up identifying her son's body in the gutter.

Ms. Jones,
The woman who once gave a testimony every Sunday
Now sits quietly on the last pew of the church.
Having nothing at all to say.
Because her son recently met his maker.
Tyrone abruptly approached his judgement day.

Trying to find the silver lining in all of this,
Ms. Jones can't find not a single blessing in the painful mist.
Her soul has been beaten by grieve's painful fist.

Ms. Jones tries so hard to see the forest
But there's this one tree, you see.
Trying to see the light,
But the shadow of darkness always blocks her view it seems.

Tyrone's death didn't make the news.
Because to them
He was just another dead nigga in Harlem.
Another mess to clean up in the gutter.
Never did they think
That he left behind a pain-stricken mother.
As long as their check's came in,
They didn't give a damn one way or another.

The hurt became unbearable
Day after day,
"Bad" effectively morphed into "terrible"
Her soul was wounded.
She felt alone.
Only knowing one way to end it all,
She placed the barrel to her head
And pulled the trigger without a second thought.
Leaving yet another, "mess"
Only this time in her own home.

R.I.P Ms. Jones.
The beloved mother of a son who's name was Tyrone.