A House Is Not A Home

A house is not a home.

Although,

Perhaps to the outsider,

Or the naïve onlooker,

It may appear so.

With doors carved from wood,

And walls made of stone,

A kitchen, a bed, a bathroom.

But a house is not a home.

Love was absent there,

Not even a memory of it remained,

Among those decrepit walls.

Father resented my existence,

And Mother never called.

Torn and battered

From Father’s callous ways.

Worn, and shattered,

My pride was his dismay.

If only I could have told him

I didn’t choose to love this way.

Escaping such a house,

In which I was imprisoned,

Was my much needed respite.

Each breath of clean air,

A silent delight.

I have my own house now,

With doors carved from wood,

And walls made of stone,

A kitchen, a bed, a bathroom.

But a house is not a home.

Until one day you knocked,

Upon my wooden door,

Which I had kept locked,

To keep out the hurt before.

But alas you found a way,

To help me let you in,

To repaint my damaged walls,

To fix what lay within.

I feel it now in every room,

It's ecstasy.

I long for nothing else

When you’re next to me.

And it hits me all at once,

I am no longer alone,

Or caught in the grasp of loneliness

I’ve always had a house,

But in your arms, I found a home.