Burning.

I'm burning, I'm stuck burning in the place from which I come from. 933 Robertson Street, a small yellow "happy" home, or so I thought. I'm still stuck inside that house, no I'm not physically in it but my childhood, my bright and happy soul will forever be stuck in there. oh sweet mother and father your the reason I'm stuck. the secrets kept from me for so long I now know. the secrets I wish I never knew. the strange pipes and powders oh how I wish I never asked of nor found out father's loyalty to mother I had always wondered why I never saw a hug or a kiss, I now know that father is a sick joke of a man. mother wasn't no saint either, I had always wondered why my things would just vanish, I now know that mother had to pay the bills because they had no money. they had no money because of all the unnecessary wants and purchases, Cigarettes Energy Drinks Phones Guitars Meth. Because of the burning pile of pipes, lies, and secrets, I'm still stuck climbing, gasping for air, just trying to get a glimpse of my childhood and my soul back. mother? father? are you here? I really don't wanna climb anymore.