A/N; Just wanted to say, some parts of this poem ryhme (sp?) and some don't, so try not to make everything ryhme because it won't work out. Mmkay.

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A problem’s not a problem
So as long as you’re still breathing
The blood’s on the floor and your poor wife is weeping
Making the bed never was a big deal
Or cooking or cleaning or watching the kids
But you’ve left that young lady all on her own
Pregnant with your daughter and at home with your son
Don’t you know a bottle of poison when you see one?

Just look at all these cans of paint
Diverse as the people on the face of the Earth
Signing your death certificate on a Friday night
Worth fifty cents and a ride back home
Heaven, Hades, quite possibly Hell
You can make your choice for a dollar more

Take a peek at the old teddy bear
That made your child so happy
But now that you’re gone and away from the world
All he needs right now is his “Daddy”
And his mother is so very tired
From working day and night
The little boy cries, the landlord complains
And he claims to “hear” ghosts at night

Just look at all these cans of paint
Diverse as the people on the face of the Earth
Signing your death certificate on a Friday
Worth fifty cents and a ride back home
Heaven, Hades, quite possibly Hell
You can make you pick for a dollar more

Now she spends her time all alone in one room
Biting her nails down to the skin
Your daughter is crying
The dog’s already dead
And your son is about to join him
What a wonderful way to be remembered
As the man who let his own family down
Watch what you wish for and watch what you say
Because when it comes true
It may not be in a good way

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A/N; I made this poem a while ago. At first I didn't like it too much, and it was originally called 'Tricked Into Death/Dying' (I can't remember if it was "Death" or "Dying") which is waaay too cliche to me. So I added some stuff, took away some stuff, edited some stuff, looked over it three or four times, and then I finally renamed it 'Cans of Paint', because the part about the paint is my favorite line. I actually made it up because I heard my grandmother and my mother complaining about 'all these cans of paint'. They all got ruined, so we had to throw them out.

Uh, I don't really know what the story behind this is, so I suppose you can just make it up. And if you're curious to know, the daughter HAS been born in the last section of the poem, but her mother is too depressed and too detached to hear her crying. Please leave a review if you enjoyed the poem in any way. Again, I'm only 12 years old (13 is fiiiive days) and you can't expect any REAL talent from me. ) So if you have nothing nice to say (or nothing helpful to offer me), then please just click that back button. Thank youuuu.

-Forwards, Bandit