Sitting on my little bed,
Feel of no friends under my shed.
So poor to have no lights,
Sleeping dark in those nights.

Closed doors with fear of thugs,
Talking with my bed of bugs.
Waiting for the bell to ring,
Coming someone for me to sing.

Thinking about my next lines,
I fall inside a dark mine.
Waiting for the climbing rope,
I spent years looking up for hope.

Crying under the depth of caves,
Trying to hear the sound of waves.
Thinking about my next line,
Is this all write fine?