A Poem by Mariana Silva

I've recently moved and well...a little poem to commemorate the move I suppose...


This new house in which I reside,

Oh, how it makes me wish for home.

What’s a house but a building with no love?

How I wish I was home,

Because, you know, home is where the heart is.



I walked in that front door,

And all my warmth was quickly stolen away

As this new place tries to become what I used to have,

Lost it all in the game society plays,

So now I have this house with nothing to fill it with.



Its missing love,

Its missing warmth

But most importantly of all,

Its missing my respect, but someday soon,

Let’s hope I can call it home!



I sit up in my bed tonight,

The only piece I have left to my name.

I pray I won’t feel the dark,

As I shut my scared brown eyes,

Cus God help me, its all I can feel.



Days go by,

And days become weeks,

Weeks become months
And soon the years roll on by

But this old house, ain’t changing for me.



All I can do is sit up and sigh.

Finally, my anger and frustration peaks!

I finally give in after years upon months

And simply cry…

This house will never be the home I seek!



On I continue with this conviction,

And slowly I resign to leaving it be.

I clean the home when it needs it,

But nothing more as I see that I do not have the heart to do it.

All I wanted was home..



Then, after years, I finally overturn my conviction…

All around me, I see struggling and life, and its how I realize I wanted this to be!

I finally have a couch on which to sit…

To this house, I added things to it

And slowly built up the feelings and love of my lost home.


© 2008 Mariana Silva

Author's Note

Mariana Silva
Opinions? Thoughts? Comments? Most but flames are greatly appreciated

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i liked it i know how you feel i used to move alot because my dad is a methodist preacher. glad its working out!

Posted 15 Years Ago

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1 Review
Added on June 16, 2008


Mariana Silva
Mariana Silva


Love to read and write, so much in fact, there isn't a place where my journal and pen have not followed me because you never know when something will spring forth to be written. Not a prodigy but some.. more..

Honest Honest

A Poem by Mariana Silva