Okay, this is a really bad and stupid poem about my parents and my home life slightly. I'm really really sorry that's it's just me complaining for a long time but I felt like I should publish it because my parents being divorced and all has really affected my life. I know it's stupid. I'm sorry. I hope you somehow enjoy it. Thank you for reading.
Walk. Arrive. Unlock. "Hi!"
"We're here."
Store. Home. TV. Phone. School. Movies.
I'm grateful for the movies. If we didn't watch them so much we'd have to talk.
"You act too much like your mother."
"Does she not care that I want time with you too? We could have spent the day together but no, she kept you to herself."
"Do you feel safe at your Dads?"
"He always annoyed me when he did that."
"He should have told me his schedule earlier!"
I see the texts. I've heard the calls. I know you argue silently through countless walls. The houses, not more than two hundred feet apart, have done their part in fracturing my heart. Tiny backyard. Popcorn ceilings. Peeling paint. Cream walls. Silent feelings. Tiny scrawls. A hundred notebooks. Ties in the back of a door. Separate homes mean so much more. A parent resides on the couch. The other resides on the bed they once shared. The separate "bedrooms" are frozen and lacking a feeling of care.
The main majority, of my time at home one. The one with my bedroom, my clothes, and plenty of food to come. The one where I can get things I need. The one that feels more caring. And the one that doesn't need constant planning. The second less like home, but home nonetheless. Always cold, a bag at the foot of my bed. The items we gain, are mainly just necessities and what we're fed. But this home holds the most fun. The humor and games, that prove to be won. The jokes and the smiles, are worthwhile. Most is provided, from the other home. Comfort lurks in corners, but feels like awkward over roamed.
Walk to work. Work all day at home. One there all the time, one available when they're off. Tired, lacking sleep. Have to keep us alive. So working they keep. It's my fault, for making them mad. I shouldn't have done anything, I've made them sad. I need to stop doing anything at all. I've caused so many problems. Made so many marks on these walls. I deserve the annoyance I get. The negativity I feel.
But both homes hold an anger issue. Hidden rage. Pained looks, tears stain the page. Confrontations. Battles unseen. All I ask is please,
can it be so nobodies stuck in between?
YOU ARE READING
Nobody Was Meant to See
Poetry[Trigger Warning, please be safe when reading] They aren't supposed to know. They aren't meant to read these poems that I'm writing. I've concealed them for a reason. -Shitty poems about how I feel-
