What Is This Place?

There's been a hell put on me, and it isn't written on frail paper, in black ink by pink skinned kings.

At Home

I crash like waves standing here silent on the edge of a sea of soulless eyes.

My heart is on fire. It burns like ember logs in pot belly stoves.

Give me quiet, soft hugs and laughter, feeling the trees; the wind in their leaves.

Must everything have definition in this two dimensional "I have a question need an answer about the hereafter and what might not be?"

Reflecting a journey into inner struggles, confronting memories and pain, and embracing healing through self-understanding and deep listening.