Sometimes the things that we desire hold a darkness within us, and the foul play becomes our motive to pain that inflicts us.
Our home holds the hell that was suppose to be beneath us.
Time is no more, and we wonder why we can no longer feel.
We are supposed to use our demons to determine our growth.
The past has become our mentor, and we tend to throw away what we can unfold.
On the bathroom floor holds the crimson red blood that some of 42,000 of us act upon.
And the foul odor of a dead human holds powerful meaning to what they have done.
And what floats within the sea that holds the lights of our one piece has finally reached land.
But without it's natural habitat, with what life can it withstand.
It is a silhouette of our future filled with a demon in our space.
But I can reassure you that we will learn to evolve even though the devil still walks on land without a trace.
Even though some of us hold a sallow face because of the sickness of deaths, in this autumn, the warm colored leaves on the trees give solace to our hearts.