Juror Number Nine

A poem from the perspective of Twelve Angry Men’s Juror Number Nine, about why he willingly believed the witnesses’ lies. I don’t own Twelve Angry Men.

Seventy years

Struggle, hardship, tears

But nothing to show

Nowhere to go

Never made gold

My story untold

Lost and alone

Vacant home

I stand here, bereft

Is there anything left

How can I know

Where can I go

Past my prime

Stuck in line

Seasons change

Nothing gained

If there was a chance

For importance to start

How could I not

Disbelieve my own heart

Changing the facts

Playing the act

Make myself believe

I don’t have to leave

Wouldn’t you bend

If soon was your end?