My House Is Not A Home
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Poem by: The Young Jitterbug
My House Is Not A Home.
My house is not a home.
No pictures, portraits nothing
Bare walls and a dark eerie atmosphere engulf the house.
Mum’s room is a place of somewhat comfort
However, there are the grubby capes my mum calls curtains fitted awkwardly on the wall.
Mums bed is a petal the cushions the sad and lonely and nurses them back to health.
Rips of the cheap wallpaper send the petal nurse scurrying back down to the hospital.
The room at the end of the hallway houses the pretty faced monster that is my sister.
Once on the walls there were scribbles to show the battle scars of a war she was fighting in.
A bloody war in which skin was ripped and wrist’s slashed by the butcher’s knife. Now on the walls is blue. Not exactly as pure as white but marginally close to the grey that is her soul.
My room is different. The curtain pole is bent.
The paint is marked by rage and tempers, but it’s my place of happiness.
Sadly my happiness is overshadowed by from when cower from the loveable fatherly bastard that lies downstairs.
© Copyright 2019 The Young Jitterbug. All rights reserved.
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