Bunks arranged in systematic rows,
So even, yet so rough.
Coarse splinters from the mahogany wooden floor,
All of it is recurring in my soul.
The apple-shelves near the beds
Making use of themselves.
At least someone is.

As I lay on this “bed of roses” in my own gloom,
The thorns drip toxic blood from my “lacerated” backside.
The irony occurs when I conceive this house is not a home.
Sleepless nights in darkness dwelt,
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
This cold, unloving mattress is stiff on my back,
And I still whimper as I listen to the shadows surrounding me.
The time of hurt, the stinging tears,
This abode demonstrates no mercy... and oddly, I plead for none.