my house is a home

with hangers in the closet

and clothes on the floor,

my house is a home

with bile for walls

and scowls for beds.

those beds,

whose pillows,

never comfortable,

keep me awake,

those scowls exchanged,

they trouble me,

my heart aches.

my weak heart,

it weeps.

My composition,

strong of word,

lacking strenghth,

oh a person, 

i never loved,

a person who,

i constantly hug,

a person i share

every second with,

too vain,

too coarse,

a shame,

crying wrists.

this girl,

so sad.

this girl,

is going mad.

in the house,

out of order,

in the bed,

with devils warblers.

rocking, rocking,

in her head,

shifting in,

her scowling bed,

quilt sliding off,

stripping bare,

revealing skin

revealing tears.

a girl filled with,

iron weights,

she feels them shift,

she feels them slide,

these slipping weights,

will be her demise.

Cracking face

and trembling house,

back she crawls,

to her bed filled with scowls.