The homesickness you feel

For that old house

With its rickety old stairs

And its painted door,

Like the bluest sky, than bluer still,

Rears its ugly head at inconvenient times,

Until you are almost at the corner of the block you used to live on,

And, having walked a half a mile out of your way,

You wonder – Dare I? Dare I? Oh, I do!

Only to find that the door’s been replaced,

And the slate stairs are no longer painted

In the bright hues of your childhood,

That the siding is all wrong,

The colors all muted,

No renovation to your liking,

And you wish

That you had never came.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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