This house is not a home, when you’re in it all alone
These walls can’t talk , but their barren spaces tell the tale
of a man who couldn’t love enough
and a girl who wanted far too much.
We grow up, but we’re never grown
Setting out to make it on our own
Walking in the same foot steps of everyone who has ever come before.
This heart beats, this blood flows
But it does so without feeling, like a poet without prose.
This tongue, these teeth make language
and this voice turns them into diction
But the phrases that make their way out
were carefully penned by an author writing fiction.
These lungs they expand, it’s a forced inhalation
In rhythm with every line and every time
we knew we’d have to say goodbye.
This house is not a home,
it holds memories we hold dear
like a dusty catacomb
Thoughts too tender now to touch
but with time their skin will thicken
and as we age we’ll tell the tale
Of a boy
and a girl
and the friction.