Home

An old poem I wrote about home.

Home isn't a home,

Especially to me,

For if I live here,

I'll never be free.

 

Threats and curses,

lead me to cry,

Just sit in the dark,

Sit down and die.

 

Home isn't a home,

At least not anymore,

They tower over me,

Look down at a "w***e."

 

Never beofre,

Have I wanted to leave,

I always cry and cut,

Then bend over to heave.

 

Home isn't a home,

But it was a big part,

That slowly broke,

My now dying heart.

 

Isn't home,

That one special place,

To have your family,

Wipe the tears from your face?

 

Home isn't home,

So I sit in the street,

Close my eyes,

Let the tears drop to my feet.

 

Of course I have,

At least one honest friend,

That would stand by my side,

Until the very end.

 

But,

Home still isn't a home,

Especially to me,

So I'll pick up the knife,

And set my soul free.