Mwaka's poem:my house, up the hill

I live in a little house up the hill
Away from anyone...anyone that could come close.
This house is always locked, wether its winter shine or summer
storm.
Only 3 people live in this house,and they never seem to agree on
anything...and wonder about their existence.
Its a warm house,that in time seems to drain you to it...and yet I take
the chance.
Whats beyond the house up the hill, ive seized to wonder, I just sit
and wait for someone to visit me...in my house up the hill.
Fantacies of what may be yonder,continuosly strike my mind...but I
resist my denial...I resist my belief.
Come help me off of this hill, go through hell.
Before this hill decided it time to kill...one by one all three of me
would be gone.

I used to live in a little house up the hill...never got to know what
life was...what life could be.
No one visited me up this hill,wether it was winter storm or summer
shine.
I killed them all...made them go through hell that they never even
reached the wall.
So me,myself, and I,froze from the warm in my little house up the
hill.