Indeed;
The deed to this house was not signed by someone of my name.
From the door of this canary cab to the door of this dilapidated encagement, I had been faced with the fear that this would be just like the last house.
But fuck it. I'm a Prisoner of War.
A Prisoner of War, but I was never meant to be a soldier. The passing of my parents gave birth to this anguish erupting inside. And these windows of my soul resemble the feint stench of fate I'd been thrusted into.
So Release Me.
Release Me.
Release Me of these foster families, for none gave a fuck. Just a check to neglect me of a childhood.
Break these shackles that caused me to break down.
If their brakes had not given out I'd be fine.
No house had been a home since my foundation had gone and for years I found myself Tortured.
Tortured.
Tortured.
If you could see these wrist covered in crimson regret. Same color as the damn walls. These walls I'd been damned to.
No deliverance ever seems to come; just a dictator whose rule is not mine, so I line a Pentagon onto myself in self-mutilation.
Is This Cozy Enough For You?
'Cuz all I can seem to feel is this cold doorknob. Alongside this cold emptiness in my core no social worker could find the words or temporary placement for.
Trapped in someone else's custody;
But you can take these cuffs off of me, because I'd rather die than be subdued to someone else's rule.
So pierce me with your bayonets, and carve out the windows to my soul so you can smell the feint stench of fate that i've been thrusted into.
As she tells me..."Welcome Home."
This could never be my home.
