it's nothing like they painted in the books,
this thing we call home
where hearts and souls roam;
only throats constantly hanging on hooks

hand in hand at dinner tables, praying;
but what they forgot
was pleading with God
for some patience at 6 in the morning

no laughing under the bright christmas trees,
warm conversations,
pointing stars til dawn;
only tighter grips for a hug and kiss

is it me or them or the books that's wrong?
is home even real,
or a far fetched dream?
because this place feels very far from home