Summer house
I feel so alone.
Like there's nobody home
in this house full of colors,
in the middle of the summer.
The sun on the walls
in the most beautiful tones.
They are sparkling and gold,
good stories were told
in this house, so old.
But now the wood's slowly breaking.
The paint,
it is scraping.
Your fingers, they pull
the paint from the wood.
You would,
give this house ,
some love if you could.
But the memories are painful,
you stand up and leave.
The door closes slowly,
and the house grieves.
YOU ARE READING
my head is a mess (ENGLISH)
PoesíaEnglish poems, many come from a dark place in my heart. Copyright ©foodandagoodbook. No part of this story may be copied without my permission. If this does happen, it will be reported immediately.
