Leaving the house,
The memories,
Pain and happiness.
The child that used to live there.

Sometimes you leave too soon,
Sometimes you just have to.
For the good of the other people
Still locked inside.

You can't help but worry about them,
But you can't change anytning,
Now that you left.
But it is what you wanted, is it not?

You thought leaving the house would help you
But it only made it worse.
You have the life you wanted,
But at what cost?

This house has never known silence.

Mostly the walls bounce.
With the sound of  her voice.

My mother has never been,
An even tempered woman.

Sure there are some days that her voice.
It is soft and sweet sounding like honey.

Those are the days everything goes her way.
Those are the days when her wallet is full.
Those are the days the drug fuels her addiction.

This house has never known silence.
If there is peace I have little hope.
I'll ever find it.

I lost my pens and papers
my notebook was lost to time and war
they are scattered somewhere
in my broken home
ink dried, pages ripped apart
by the winds or by the soldiers 
i'll never know  
they mistook my literature for laughter
and my house for shelter
don't find comfort in my bed
collect your warmth somewhere else
we may share blood but never history
for my story is written in black ink, not red

Back from class
Now middle of day
Coming back to it
I don’t want to stay
This place, it’s purpose to be a home
But to me it’s just a house;
I turn to music for relief
An escape from life lessons
And long conversations
Of long term subjects
Or avocations
I don’t want the future
So I’ll look to the past
But even those memories
Could never last.
Left turns to right
Down starts going up,
Confusion sets in
Then fear follows
My heart realizes it’s spent
All this time hollow
Like a lost boy in a winter storm
clinging to a small fire for heat
Until it snuffs out,
Freezing, and accepting defeat
To the assault of this cold, cold world.

how sick the mirrors are    of visiting our dumb faces
how weary the door is    of being bolted for our precious privacy
how dreary are our voices  to the walls
          as they are trounced  by our mad surly language ?
are the beds exhausted absorbing our stains ?
are the chairs knackered enduring our strain ?

how burdened are the tables by our taxes ?
how taxed are the windows projecting in ?
is the plumbing fatigued
          or the electric stressed ?
how geared up and fearful are the stairs
           as we begin our ascent ?
how bent out of shape is the ovens mood
           to bloat with heat and then cook our food ?

the engines of our house are in order
though  they must consider their efforts wasted
                     maintaining our bewildering lifestyle

The plaster peels around the windowpane
as Virginia creeper clings, hangs low
on the old stone wall that crumbles, veined
by the cracks from the hourglass’s flow.
The weathered wood of her rafters frame
this battered house that’s fading away
like the troubles and cares she’d contained
which are silting fast into the sandy soil.
The creeper‘s five leaves grasp like a hand:
Gaia hugs this house in her tightening embrace
to fully devour all the follies of man
until only the quiet creeper remains.

I didn’t think it was possible to ****
a cactus, but I have.
Cactus corpse lies on the
drooping shelf
the spikes, once full of stabs and stings,
now limp and lifeless
(but scars on my fingers
prove it did cut me)
even the lamp misses the cactus’ prickly
presence, refusing to raise its head
rusty radiator moans loudly,
mourning the loss
I don’t think I’ll ever keep a plant again.
disappointment of the death
has left a longer-lasting mark than
scars on my fingers and
I can't bring myself to move
its corpse from the lonely old shelf

the windows are shut
the blinds are drawn
the door is locked
the lights are out
but the house is awake

the floorboards ripple
the walls squirm
the ceiling shakes with nervous energy
the doorways twitch

night has fallen
the people inside are fast asleep
but the house is awake

In the dark typhoon, swayed a dark dark house.
In the dark monsoon, flew the dark dark mouse.
Below dark dark clouds, people scream and shout,
And by the 12th hour, noon, is when the Sun comes out.

In the light, you see rubble, and the people all dead.
On a tree that had fallen, lies a small mouse head.
Through the wind left behind, you hear what the house said
As its boards were all torn from beneath its beds.

You hear the creaking and wailing of nails, screws, and springs
Which escape from their places, among other things.
They escape through the windows, and break their panes too,
And as the whistling fell silent,
All left now,
Is you.