I wish I had a better answer
for your questions every night.
I wish I could tell you,
that I'm really not alright.
But how does one bring up,
the fact that even I
don't really know the answer,
so instead I blankly lie.

a nagging blanket of
blame
tucks me into bed every
single night

dreading walking into
doors i've known for years
because life was better
back then

it's hard to pinpoint
the exact moment
when home became a house

but i think it's the day
i lost the ability
to know who i was
on my own

and that was a long time ago

there is a struggle in all our hearts
there is a fight in all of us
there are strangers in our closet
and skeletons instead walk among us.
we are the beaten and the broken,
the weakened and worn (out).
but we still have two fists
and two shaky legs
and a barely beating heart.
and that's enough for a lifetime.

In a dark place.
Where the sun never shone.
This is the place.
That I call home.

Where the wind howls.
The roof leaks.
All the windows are broken.
An the floor squeaks.

Where in the dead of winter.
The wind bites my nose.
All year long.
The rats nip my toes.

The wood is rotten.
No fire to stoke.
This is what remains.
of what was broke.

No one else lives here.
I'm all alone.
Singing sad songs.
In a sad empty home.

Why am I here.
These thoughts do grind.
What to do now.
With a broken mind.