This Place is Not a Home

This place is not a home.

It’s a war zone. It’s hell.

It’s full of people on edge,

people walking on eggshells

trying to avoid another fight,

but someone always cracks

because how can you not be angry?

This place is unhealthy.

This place is not a home.

 

This place is not a home.

This place is emotionally abusive.

You can’t share your feelings

or your true thoughts because

the tyrant will scream at you

until to submit to his way

and are terrorized into giving up.

The “man” of the house

is not a man at all

but a dictator who admitted

just last week in fact

that nothing gets done around here

unless he intimidates us

and that’s just how he likes it.

This place is run by a bully.

This place is not a home.

 

This place is not a home,

it’s barely a step above a dump.

Bathrooms are falling apart.

floors are rotting through

and tiles are shattered.

Carpets are permentaly stained

and in desperate need of a vacuum.

There hasn’t been a working light

in the kitchen in the better part

of half a decade, maybe more.

Things are broken, but not replaced.

Just put off until it becomes an “issue”,

whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Junk is piled up everywhere

that we’re expected to just live around.

There are paths but no space.

This is not a living space.

This place is not a home.

 

 

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