If life was a book, your chapter would be nothing special. It would be put together by mumbled cliche antidotes that a thousand others wrote. A chapter which may start out with brave new ideas ends with bland and usual under-the-breath-sayings. What I would of guessed to be so full of bold new facts, is nothing more than a chapter matching many other nameless, pointless faces. You are one in a crowd, and your face blends perfectly in. Your pages will be of plastic, just as fake as you. THE HOUSE THAT CRACK BUILT ::a mini-story. Through broken boards and dim-lit rooms there is a moan from the floor, like many others there is nothing left of this. What a child this poor boy is, without hope, ideas, or feelings. He is bland, he is empty, he is weak. He is dying on this floor, and we are helpless to save him. He cannot feel the pain, and he doesn't understand. He cannot read, and he is deaf to all he hears. Let life be an ending, heaven was his only chance at hope. He is lost, and he is over. The traumas that he faced have left him broken on the floor. so i guess that was a poem. love