Little horizontal linings, with bountiful treasures finding , happiness between the walls of tidings.unwinding the fact we're all crying , inside an it's denying the lying .
The here and now in my Little House of hell, words may tell , but moral of the story is , I'm unwell. This Little House is small these days , as if I fell . Looking up at things , I just can't tell. I try to be one with all , but I realized we are in hell . There aint no way out , dying , happens to be a dream without a doubt . Where no screams or shouts , can be heard even when it came from your heart and you felt,.... out.
And just came back to the same Little House.