I desperately wanted to write a poem
With words that would capture that my home
Is just a house with people in it,
A house where I can sometimes laugh a bit.
But sometimes, late at night, when I hear them fight,
I pretend it’s just another quiet night.
My house—sometimes too quiet, sometimes too noisy,
Sometimes there is fun, but never truly cozy.
The poem I never wrote about the doors,
The emptiness and little wars,
Because I never found the words to explain
How my lovely house became a place of pain.