~
Somewhere on the hill, I was alive.
Somewhere in the yellow house with the crooked door, I did survive.
Somewhere on the walls are my crayon drawings, hidden behind a shelf.
Somewhere in the halls, I was twelve.
I was nine.
I was four.
And somewhere in that very house my tears did pour.
I was two, I was one, I didn't realize what my parents had become.
I was non-existent, when my parents were persistent, they wanted a house.
A yellow one.
And raise two kids loved by everyone
But themselves.
~
YOU ARE READING
When Your Card Gets Declined At Therapy | Poetry Collection Part 1 ©
Poetry... so they bring up the poems you wrote instead. © All written by me 2022 - 2024 Fay Willows
