The doors of my home

The doors of my home

A house is not a home, unless your heart gets attached.

In my house, the wallpaper is flaking,
the taps are dripping and the mould is eating away on the walls.

It is my house, it is my home, it is my shelter.
Once it was a lively place, guests came in every day.
They didn’t mind the grungy place that hosted them.
It was part of me and I was part of them.
The smell, penetrating the walls, the floors,
the sofas, the doors, the ceiling.

It had become unbearable for them.

I still had to come home there every morning,
when I wake up, smelled the stiff odour of rot.
Sometimes the walls would crack, the floors shriek,
the house would seem to fall apart.
One day, the smell and nose was too much to take,
I chased everyone out.
Stay out, go away, don’t get caught up in my mess.
They didn’t hear the warning signs,
they didn’t see the cracks, showing through the wallpaper.
I had done a nice job to cover up,
to paint over the cracks in my home,
the mould in my brain.
When I chased them out and hid in the safest place I could find,
they thought I didn’t want them anymore.
They saw the door slammed shut,
while I was just trying to prevent the house from falling apart.
I had locked myself in my room,
to rebuild the walls, plaster the ceilings and paint the doors.
When it was done, there was no-one to welcome back.
So I spend the night alone, watching the candle flicker,
creating shadows on the walls.
Slowly the cracks began to show.
There was no laughter, no talking.
The sound that once kept things in place has diminished,
walls are leaning in and ceilings crack above my head.
But the candle is still creating shadows on the flaking wall,
the warmth is keeping me company,
until it dies. 

Find my inspiration on: wellofinspiration.blogspot.com