My Poetry. Little Joey.

Young Joey sat strapped in the chair he called home,
watching the vast, indifferent world pass by.
At the age of ten, his legs refused to move,
no matter how fiercely he would try.

His mother, a woman who struggled to work,
had to fight hard just to make ends meet;
a streetwalker, earning the wages they needed,
making her living out on the cold street.

So Joey was often left alone at night,
dreaming of the life he knew he deserved;
all he could see was the window's square pane,
and the sight of an enormous, powerful tree.

He imagined climbing right up to the highest branch,
and shouting with all the strength he could find,
"Hey, look at me down there! I finally made it!
I got here, and I've left all my weakness behind!"

He dreamt of someday becoming a firefighter,
his strong hands saving many precious lives;
rescuing terrified children from the flames' heat,
and returning husbands safely to their wives.
Or maybe he would choose to become a doctor,
to end all the unfair disability in life,
then settle down, raise a few happy children,
and find peace and happiness with a good wife.

But for now, the reality was deep loneliness,
in a world that felt meaningless and wrong;
sometimes poked at and humiliated by others,
a silent victim all day long.

Despite this, young Joey was fiercely humble,
he cared deeply for others who shared his pain.
That is why he pushed himself to exercise,
training hard and again, through sun and through rain.
They told him his legs would never truly walk,
that he would never stroll in the green, open park;
instead, he sits quietly there, simply dreaming,
finding light for his soul, alone in the dark.

There are many Joeys scattered across this world,
who simply yearn for their basic health and peace,
but sadly, there are so many more people
who only think of their self-serving wealth's increase.