No one knows the anger that twist and weathers in between the marrow of the bones, the hurt and sorrow that fills the blood within the veins, pumping in and out of the heart, or the voice that haunts some, day and night, hour and minute reminding them all of something horrible, the voice that talks but never listens, the voice that commands and must be heard. No one caring to read in between the lines, or see under the criteria of the skin, just above it and of course what’s on it. No one taking the time to really figure anyone out, not caring enough to dare. Everyone seething and seeking just above the water, careful not to get wet. For no one knows that of the other mind, the anger, the sorrow, or even the happy all buried and tucked under the criteria of the soft, glow of skin that surrounds us like a house, protecting our innocent which with no problem surfaces to the top. For we all are like a house with broken dreams, broken hearts, bruises and cuts, smiles, laughter, and some which of clowns. In some way, shape or form we all are house that either has crumpled, or one that will, within, time crumple.