This house used to be alive
Laughter, love, family, hope, blissful ignorance of what'd come to be.
But now it's just me.
Alone.
The silence of this house is a shadowed memory of the love of a home.
The pills got what they wanted, and took pops away. My cat was older than me, and just left us one day.
I miss being asked what I wanted for dinner. I miss football in the street, with dad, or him pulling out my splinters.
What about running home from the bus stop to grandma's donuts? Or watching the fireworks on our blankets, I miss this **** so much.
Isn't there someone who wants me to feel alright?
Can't God just help me sleep all night?
Cant we just have one more snowball fight?
Couldn't dad watch me enlist? And teach me how to low crawl right?
Cause if I go to Afghanistan, I'd want him to see, everything I became, and send me letters overseas, saying how proud he is, and how much he loves me. And cry and hug me in the airport when he sees me in greens.
Cause that year would've felt like forever. But now it's been eight, and I know that we'll never.