untitled but please read me

I like tall grass and dingy homes. Ones that are lived. Ones that tell a story when you see them. A story that's not a lie of perfectly manicured lawns and shrubbery with sharp angles aching to explode into a wild mass of thorns and berries for squirrels to get lost in. As soon as they feel near to growing to their truthful potential an old man comes out in his khakis and gloves with the glorious shears of withholding to cut them back into submission. Ahhh how they ache to be free. I can feel it. Just like I feel how it felt when that step gave way underneath the foot of a child running inside to find refuge from the mean ones. The pure feeling of surprise, followed by anguish and frustration as her foot collided with the hand carved wood as it and as it connected crumbling underneath the force her fearful feet created. Caving into a cavern of large and small pieces with angles that poked and scraped turning a child's insurmountable inner pain into an undeniable physical torment that quieted her thoughts with a slap to the heart. The tears that came as the ones that chased became the ones that witnessed and then the ones that laughed. Ahh the hubris, it began as a game but it consumed, they loved it and forgot so now they laugh at another's pain. But there was one that didn't laugh and that was the only saving grace for the stairs, the child, and the tears. 

Author's Note

Ignore grammar please, I wasn't sure what genre to categorize this under but I wrote it in my journal of sorts so there you go.. This was inspired by an old dilapidated house I passed by in the city and how I tried to explain to the person I was with why I like homes like it. I don't think he understood my reasoning but a few days later I was thinking of the home and this came to me.