young Joey was eight years old . already tired of living.
he resided in the slums family forever poverty stricken.
crime infested decisions made his life pale and callous.
envied the the best kid. jail filled him with hate and malice.
he was a deliquent in his own mind. life was always fucked.
but a stroke of luck and happiness came in with a paintbrush.
paint loved joey in the exact same way that he loved the art.
the brush was his flashlight and his road was very dark.
no longer did he get depressed when obstacles came to view.
he found a possesion with a use and used art to get through.

Joey was 18 struggling to eat. wishing food where his hand is.
damnit. depression couldnt enter because he had his canvas.
his paintbrush made happiness run in and through his veins.
and art was still his pick me up. that helped him in his days.
he didnt need crime. only the cells in his brain . what he seeked.
was an intellect only an artist inherits. to construct a masterpiece.
he painted all day usually until his hands began to horribly hurt.
after he finished. he stared into its light. he never sold his work.
and it was left in storage. beautiful and never to be disturbed.

joey was 38 a wife to kids life was nothing but not amazing.
struggling to eat he decided it was time to sell his paintings.
and he considered it the best idea though reluctant he did.
his eyes possessed fire when he heard the first million dollar bid.
shit! he was rich he went to unload the work into the buyers van.
and the door slammed unexpectedly taking both of his hands.
damn. he woke up in a hospital wife and kids by his side.
whispering the lies. that everything will eventually be alright.
they left. and one night he went to the window. from story 10.
and attempted to fly. knowing that he could never paint again.


...ahh sorry for the sloppiness...had to write this in about 10 minutes..something i was thinking about...i know flow is off and on. but i am more concerned with my content. let me know what you think...

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