It Wasn'T

Well, one could not call it a church for it was not white, pure, or religious nor could it be called a Police Department or Sheriff Department with the attached jail for it was not that bad or evil. This place was unpainted, bare wood, and with four rock chimneys which sometimes smoked no matter how old or young they were but the smoke only appeared in the early morn and late afternoon for the occupants were about life or should I say survival. Making it from pay check to pay check barely getting by with nothing to spare. Inside was emotional barreness, loneliness, and inferiority at the max for love and hope had died so long ago. Isolation of the soul with preditory instincts to encapsulate all with the preditory instincts of a wild animal this being done to one so young rightly separates this place from a church but yet it is not a prison. Permanently emotionally destroys the child...... (Is this prose poetry or do I need to work on it. Be honest. I need to know where to go with it.)