90 Years and Counting
If I was allergic to dog hair, I'd be fucked. My walls and floors are thin so you can hear the path of a toilet flush very clearly. I'm half-done, forgotten after they acquired the dog, but the parts that they did look nice. There's light in me now, and the house is filled again with life. I am still held together by glue and desperation, but at least the inside looks nice now. If only they would move some of their skills to the outside and revive my dying garden.
House of memories
My floorboards creak as they walk across me, I try to support them best I can but I'm of a time before their birth, I'll be there in the time after their death. The shuffling of feet across the carpet at three in the morning as nocturnal children come out to play, grabbing forbidden delicacies from the fridge, that never quite fit. In the morning, I am bathed in light serenely serenaded by birds, basking in the feeling of the rising sun, true peace.
Alas, it's not meant to be I hear what gets said over the breakfast table, I feel my drawers slammed just tight enough to make a statement you dare not utter. The feeling of shoes decisively stomping up the stairs, music blaring, shaking the house in revolt. I hear the sounds of keyboards clacking into the late hours, venting, trying to explain why laundry folding habits have a secret meaning. I Wish I could bring you back to the serene morning, wishing you could feel the warm rays and hear the bluejays bring you some semblance of peace, or Allowing you to stomp out the feelings that crush your frail human chest. I am Here.
The inside of my house is ripped up; it is war-torn collateral (brutality).
There is a chandelier hanging off the ceiling by one wire (instability),
the walls are covered in peeling paint (hopelessness).
On the ground is busted up tile (destructiveness).
The kitchen could be said to be a bit of a hoarder's dream (holding onto old feelings).
I have done too much damage to it over the years (trauma).
It is unhabitable (unhealthy).
But there is something about the ambiance (uniqueness).
It could be renovated,
but then who would be able
to live there (determination)?
Someone wants to. They'll be back.
If the walls of this house could talk
It would tell you of the little girl, scared to leave her room for the monsters looming around, ready to pounce on her at any second.
It would tell you of the bottles that clink in the trash can, and pile up as they are put in.
It would tell you of the woman on her comupter, telling of her lies
and it would tell of the youngest, letting out her cries.
It would tell of a dog, who shook when thunder roared.
It would tell of an old woman, who just wanted to go to sleep.
It would tell of a girl who grew up too quick, no longer little anymore.
It would tell you of that same girl, and her terrible ways she coped
It would tell you of the man, who loved washington more than the 2 little girls
and it would tell of the oldest, begging to be loved for who she is, rainbow and all
My own house
Let’s have a short sneaky trip to my own house, myself.
A huge palace
A fragrant garden
With a fountain in
Sitting beside it my mommy.
Ear bursting music and dancing in flow
That’s my nasty bro
The one in pink with shinning glow
Is none other than my useless siso
They are my life
Making it a life
Home sweet home
My home is and will always be found within myself.
Comfort is not easily found, much less when I am vulnerable.
In my home, I am safe.
In my mind, I am alone.
The murals along the wall, inspired by bittersweet memories
are now replaced with dark wallpaper.
Dust clings to the chairs, tables, floor as I stare mindlessly through the cracks between the boards nailed to my windows.
It’s dark, I’m alone, I’m stuck, I’m scared
But at least I know I’m safe.