they make the plans,
subdivisions of perfectly aligned streets,
and small lots that were once filled with trees,
building houses that represent
what you're supposed to strive for:
money, opulence, a wealth that now exists in ones and zeroes
on a monthly statement that may or may not even be true,
that we can't even trust,
countless numbers of people being told this is what they want,
filling these homes with extra things
they don't need or use
except when entertaining,
all driven by a company that tells them this is the American Dream -
to live in cookie-cutter houses
with no personality,
no imperfections,
a pretend facade,
to hide the imperfections of ourselves
in the guise of manicured lawns and beige paint.

give me a house that isn't perfect,
that needs paint and maybe a new porch,
where the corners aren't perfectly square,
and the yard grows weeds in between the grasses,
where the gutters need to be cleaned
because the trees are just a little too close,
and the spiders in the basement need to be relocated to outside.
give me the realness of imperfection,
a home that reflects who we are:
a little chaos
a little polish
a little messy
a little comfy
a little crazy
a little loving
a little bit of everything, out in the open
no longer hiding.