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.

birds are made of trees
where do they hide from me
whispering wishes of insecurity
casting around like a clown
becoming somebody
holding
false dreams
no witness
I need jeans
that have some pockets
deep enough to stuff
my wallet
full of envy and greed
hundred dollars in the hole
knowledge from believing I can finally leave
sunkissed absence marking my feet
sore and tender
shoes of soul
legs shaking
arms quaking
mind racing
bruised breast
disguised wrists
deep from the core
sliced and discarded
nothing more
sore spine
open flesh
juicy and ripe
no milk in sight
feelings are lies
logic
bones
fingertips
telephone polls
and spiderwebs
splinters in my eyes
where is all of this going
who is it meant for
explore me
if you please
forced jaw
broke open
dry tongue
memories
do you miss me

only people who are dead inside,
see black,
when they close their eyes