“Bryan Garcia was one of my best friends. He was the only person who I truly trusted.
Bryan got locked up for fours years for violating probation. During that time, I wrote him twice a week. When he got out of prison, the first thing he did was come over. We rented some movies and kicked it in my living room. He talked about his future and made plans to go job-hunting.
Less than two weeks later, the phone rang. It was his mom, screaming hysterically, “Bryan has been shot!” I hung up the phone in disbelief and jammed over to his house. Bryan was on the ground, covered with a white blanket, surrounded by policemen. Gang members had shot him, mistaking him for someone else. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I thought, “What a waste.”
After the funeral, I wrote this poem. It was painful to write, but I felt I had to do it. When I read it to Bryan’s mother, she cried.
Sometimes, when I visit Bryan’s grave, I leave him white flowers from my mother’s garden.
Gangbanger
You used to be cool, used to be down
Now you’re just another dead punk clown.
Claiming to be this, claiming to be that
A walking target who didn’t watch his back.
Homies dying everywhere, dying left and right
Now didn’t you tell me it was alright?
A gangbanger, yeah, that’s what you were
Six feet under after getting out of stir.
Thought you were a role model, even a star
Now gangbanger, look where you are.
Took your problems to the battle ground
Too bad you can’t take a good look around
And watch the people who loved you form a line
To pay their respects for the very last time.
To be taken away at such a young age
Fills your family and friends with quite a rage
Yet others will follow through with gang tradition
To decrease our population as their final mission.”