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| A House Isn't A Home |
| the steps creak |
| with every step I take |
| up the stairs that |
| I wish I never had |
| To climb for so long |
| the ocean waves crash |
| along the rocky cliffs-- |
| still. |
| that salty air |
| overwelms more than |
| my sense of smell |
| the screen door |
| will hang slightly |
| off it's hinge |
| like it always |
| had ever since I |
| could actually recall. |
| Those memories. |
| They say that |
| Everything happens |
| for a reason |
| but that isn't |
| possible; |
| the door unlocked |
| lets me in |
| without a fight. |
| it's all the same |
| the same furniture sits |
| in the parlor |
| there's nothing |
| that doesn't bring |
| back a memory. |
| That was sitting |
| in the back of |
| my mind for |
| so long |
| that I thought I |
| forgot it |
| already. |
| But it's all there |
| dusty and forgotten |
| in the yellowed |
| pages of a dream. |
| from so long ago. |
| The larkspur have |
| long since died |
| and the ivy's |
| gone wild. |
| but it's all there |
| like it had |
| never gone but |
| i never |
| knew that I'd |
| come back to |
| a past that still |
| haunts my |
| present |
| now that I'm |
| here; where will |
| I go home to? |
| It's a question |
| I pose to myself |
| examining the books |
| on the shelf |
| that I never read. |
| forgotten titles; |
| forgotten dreams |
| the ideas of yesterdays |
| are not thoughts of |
| today; |
| there's no place |
| to go but the future |
| that never comes |
| anyway after |
| living in the past |
| for so long |
| I've lived in fear |
| of this day |
| since forever |
| and now that it's |
| come there's |
| nowhere to go |
| but back. |
| Back to a past |
| I don't know |
| and a future |
| That I just |
| won't recognize. |
| Until the future |
| becomes today |
| and today becomes |
| the past. |