I'm living in my mansion for a years, Have learned to conquer all my fears. The surroundings here was in silent, Never been entered by a miscreant.
Within my fancy home, I'm jubilantly all alone. Like flowers that individually bloom, Locking myself on my cleanest room.
But was I really enjoyed my life? Or just saying that I enjoyed it even I'm not. I don't know, I was an empty paper that seeks for a writer to be used. This life isn't I want, but I couldn't just refuse.
Even if how many years I lived here, My mansion never welcome me, dear. All the things here was so quiet! I'm slowly turning into pathetic deaf!
I wanna know something to myself, What was this kind of life—just to have a wealth? My chiminea doesn't warm anymore, And all went in dilemma and gloom. So tell me my soul, is this still a home?
—Ms. Blue
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