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Living in this home is like being a blue bird traped in a cage. Surrounded by restrictions in every direction, and always yearning to spread your wings. Your inner spirit endlessly begging to be as free as the wind breezing above every sea.
   Living in this home is like living in the deepest darkest misery. Constantly consumed by sadness and depresson. Everyday a little more sliders like a venomous snake into your soul extinguishing your burning flame. Leaving your heart freezing cold, and a chill is now within your soul.
   After living in this home you seem to lose all hope. With every passing moment a bitterly salty tear trickles down your check descending into a puddle of lost hopes and dreams. After living in this home you realize you don't have to die to know what death is like.
This poem was written by Corlotta S. Linzy other wise known as Lil Lotta. Writen Thursday July22, 2010 6:11p.m.
Patrick Harrison Jun 2020
I've been hit in the head with a frying pan.
There's a bit of a ringing in my ears.
All thoughts stem from depresson,
so I sit inside my room.

I watch the walls
yellow and I watch the
shadows change for hours.

I've been hit in the head with a frying pan.
They kicked me to the dirt, hit me, crippled me.
And I can't bear to weigh my options.
I can't bear to leave the house.

— The End —