In my mother's house, 
Walls are resistant to my voice. 
In the sunlight, 
I am an abandoned minibus. 
In the midnight blue, 
Aggression surrounds me.

I am a fallen anchor, 
Carried away by the current of forlorn. 
Emotionally worn, 
Spiritually stillborn, 
Mentally torn. 
Each minute I mourn. 
I am a wounded buffalo unable to withstand the storm.

Behind the scenes, 
The excruciating commences, 
Like a rose with thorns that penetrate deeply. 
With each dire, 
Non-visual scars burn like fire.

Bleeding afresh with each memory, 
Words are like skewers piercing deep inside the walls of my heart. 
Wounds are invisible but felt with every throb of my wounded heart.

As I am thirsty for liberation in my mother's house, 
I am trying to hold my eyes on my heart. 
The harder I try, 
The more I see the hatched eggs of pain in the house.