I think I've come to the conclusion that
Pretty people are just meant to be looked at
Not touched or felt or anything else
Like a museum piece-so oh well
I'm kind of a rock in the middle of a lake
That no one really knows about-but that's okay
So I go to museums to see the pretty pieces
Not to be loved by them or really even noticed
Because what is a rock amongst all of the artwork?
And what is a painting in a lake filled with murk?

the house, it stands, with it's tumbling walls
almost diseased with something one cannot name
for the rhythm of the house beats like thunder
and never stops, for someone is to blame

the water drips from a leak imposed into the roof
dissolving all of the soggy frames and pictures
those which will surely freeze and crack
when the world outside turns bitter and it becomes winter

the walls that were red have faded to grey
only a dead remnant of the dauntless fire
leaving only weakened plaster
as the house's void attire

as winter comes with snow and ice
the walls become slick with an invisible frost
and the cracks will widen just to fall apart
any hope of redemption being silent and lost

so a small boy with a pointed face and bright eyes
tries to revive the house with love and planted flowers
but they faded to nothing like everything else
leaving merely a crumbling and powerless tower

and inside the tower, set upon a desk
suspended in blood in a lonely jar
was all that was left of the girl and her house
the ever-beating carcass of her heart

I hope you know that

Every label you gave me

And every terrible word you said

Is seared and branded

In my head

And you know what

I believe

every word.