Crematorium

Home feels like,
An ash tray where we litter our bridges lit by the embers we ignite,
Whether it’s the sunshine or,
Mary Jane wrapped in a sheet of anger you choose to let simmer and burn her…

Left in the dust!
Was I,
Within a home I could never call my own,
As my old soul grew aware of the farce I was forced to call family…

I have none!
A vanity I have much love for now that I’ve recovered my sanity.
Awoken to the man in each frame of mind I’ve destroyed by,
Placing my picture back into a glass frame still in one piece,
How I yearn to be…