I watch myself hold my words and a book to my chest closely as if they will save me from these hard times. This home is cold. Rotting boards crashing down with the most saddening sound. Theres a lock on the door but the wallpapers washing away. This home is cold, and I know enough to know no ones coming home. This garden refuses to grow but I'm settling for paper roses. Paper roses stained with broken emotion, drowning in ink. These paper roses will grow, not from water but from my hearts casualties. So I'll continue to struggle with putting my thoughts to the art of words and when I run out of ink I'll put my pain into this pen to assure I never run out of ink again.