How is this poem? 2665?

The little boy's expressions dull written all over his face in black ink without any feeling, he sits in filth infested with mice surrounded by second hand smoke nervously awaiting for the brown leather belt to arise.

Tears streak down his red blushed cheeks as the ashes from the marlboro brand cigarette fall down to the top of his foot. In mind he is trembling with fear poured into the cup he is forced to drink his sweated thoughts paralyzed as his words cometo a dead end, they can't seem to find their way out and neither can he.

Glints of sun shine through the cracked greased stained window of the small apartment, opened just a little for the air to blow in gliding with the echoes of other childrens laughter, fun does not exist to him, the emotions he once expressed now locked in his mothers tie die jewelry box.

He sits again, the dried tears are now wet, he looks at the woman who gave him his two beautiful brown eyes but she's too wasted to notice,