I live in a bleak block of butter,
And then I wonder suddenly of the splendor
d r a p e d  
in dehydrated dandelions
I call my home

As I saunter inside my sweetcorn shell,
I  s w o o n
over the scent of my dad’s cooking,
and over the symphony of laughter resonating
within these four walls
so I could call it home

I’m entrapped in its grasp
since it ensures my ‘safety’,
it’s a prison that entertains,
but never enlivens me
Filled but  e m p t y;
this is not my home