Old house, with old objects.
Like a hideaway.
Like a place, too inject.
Nevertheless, no, this is home.
All cold and damp.
A steady glow from an oil lamp.
The gentle pit patter outside my window.
Grey unnerving skies.
Light up all that I despise.
Indifferent,
I am almost.
However, tablets like too fight indifference.
Therefore, i am just a roller coaster of moods.
Though with an unemotional being like me.
You would never guess.
You would not care anyway.
Small creatures hide from me.
They think i am evil, well maybe I am.
I don't know anymore.
Maybe I am the reincarnation of Jim Jones!
Maybe I am the devil itself!
Maybe I just hate myself...
Oh, self deprecating tripe!!
I do wonder why I write this rubbish.
I know no one cares and it is rather embarrassing,
Just too cry out,
So I guess I will stop.
