You’re always in the pub.
She’s always at home.
Watching her life pass on her own.
You’re always six pints drunk.
She learns to live with it.
Figures her life will always be shit.
You’re aways with your mates.
She’s got not friends to call.
Trapped. A prisoner in four square walls.
She’s taught herself to paint.
Something to fill her time.
She likes it, quietly, sketching line by line.
She’s joined some local artists.
Sneaks out when you’re not there.
They love her and her work, they really seem to care.
She’s getting better every day.
Puts a painting up for sale.
Waits and worries nervously, doesn’t want to fail….
She’s sold so many pictures.
A local celebrity.
You’re still drinking down the pub, where you’ll always be.
She knows the time is now.
Last look at her once home.
Knows you’ll come back to darkness, and a life alone.
She’s shaken off your shackles.
She left and shut your door.
Successful, beautiful, the world to live for.