Joy. I think it lives somewhere else sometimes. We take long drives to find it. Some ride that long stretch of road to where happiness lives. People stop at taverns. Others shop at stores. Purchasing happiness in bottles, cans and shiny paper. I find it in the things people run away from. Mortgages. Foreclosure. Loans and insurmountable debt. The strange dark drive to own things…


This sat on a quiet bend in a peaceful neighborhood. I slipped through the wooden, splintered fence posts. The house was a ruin. Pale shadow. It once spoke of opulence. Contentment. The retired life of leisure. Its voice muttered to me now as my eyes ran across its sagging doors, broken windows and blistered face. The old home squatted there. The voice I heard was tired. All the people that had made it what it was… were gone. Its voice rumbled… No love. No life. No joy. Skate- Ozzie


2 thoughts on “joy

  1. You ask what is the quality of life?
    Seeking to justify the part you play
    And hide, fearing it incomplete, to try
    To make it any more or less than short and sweet…

  2. Money, it’s a gas.
    Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash.
    New car, caviar, four star daydream.

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