William Sinclair Manson

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My-Poetry / Writings · 23 January 2020

My Poetry. Little Joey.

 Joey sat in the chair he called home
 watching the world go by
 at ten years old he could not walk
no matter how hard he would try.
 His mom was a working lady
 she had to make ends meet
 a streetwalker making her wages
 making money on the street.
 Joey was left alone at night
 dreaming of what life could be
 all he saw was a window
 and outside an enormous tree.
 He imagined climbing to the top
 and shouting with all of his might
 hey you down there, look at me
 I got here and I can fight.
He dreamt of someday being a firefighter
saving many lives
children rescued from the heat
husbands and their wives.
Or maybe he could be a doctor
to end all disability in life
settle down with children
be happy with a wife.
But for now he was so lonely
in a World that made no sense
being poked at and humiliated
at everyones expence.
Despite this Joey was humble
he cared for people like him
thats why he would exercise
and go out to the gymn.
He was told he would never walk
or enjoy a stroll in the park
instead he sat there dreaming
alone and in the dark.
There are lots of Joeys in this world
who simply want their health
but sadly there are many more
who only think of wealth.    
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