Feels like...

Lost, but held by survivior insisting nature.

Words are leaving me.

I'm sick, but not much...

I'm free to sleep, but I don't want...

I'm out put from belonging...

I hide and am ashamed,

Give up for at most five minutes, and when I see,

I ache in silence, hopeful, but my hope's neighbors smell like other's dirt I have to stand...

Being clean and sad, I get no perfume, no good scent,

Maybe I don't earn fresh never air.

Maybe smoking tempers the around I shut...

Or am perfectly aware of fearing,

Understanding that what was done to me stinks in a way not acceptable...

Like what's been done!

So, not to be taken from home and get no single proper punished harm provider, I breath with a gave up face...

I get sick for lack of respect as something that will only rip tears...

Not one! Of recent cried is fair.

...

My Story is too violent to become anything else but poetry.