In Poetry Or Lullaby

There are strange noises happening in my apartment. Voices groaning in pain, and crying in anguishing angst. I called the police, as I just thought my depression is talking in hallucination. The police arrived in time. I told him about the experience. “There is nothing we can do to help you. I am not hearing any voices!” He was looking around. And I was still hearing the voices. Supplication within. Supplication without. Supplication in an area claiming to be in the indigenous area. The different “INDIANS” than brown-colored Asian Indians. And this is Death bed. I am selfish to own only me, there. And this is not an emotional blackmail. Not to you, not to them. I am none other than just another among a mass, among a crowd, staring at life. Poetry. Lullaby. Whatever.