In a dimension of hurt and lies, we still seem to believe we are invincible to it.
Despite knowing what is out there, we never believe it to happen to us.
We are not invincible, in fact we are more vulnerable because of it, because of the brains deceit.
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But in a hall of lies do we whisper to the fallen? Or wither at the feat of the higher serenity.
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Getting let into someone else's life is a curious thing. You can marvel at the beauty of fine design, rich architectual structures that you were never privy of as a child. But you can never quite call it... A home. Yet you go to a house of broken frames, weeded lawns and dirty laundry and that, that's a home. Safe and lived in. Constant desperate attempts of cleanliness never quite suffice. There's always another crumb on the floor, or another dirty dish forgotten on the old oak dresser. That's a home. That's where I want to live.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryI feel some things should be shared.. But to show it to anyone I know would be scary, so I'll put them on here
