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Houses and Hotels

A Poem I Wrote About My Mother

By hamsackPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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Houses and Hotels

The house has a caving roof

A bungalow with decaying wood

Unkempt fences made of fear

A garden full of all your tears

Bottles clink together in the wind

Metal tables that rust in the end

A cobblestone patio of cigarette butts

A note on the door that gave me papercuts

Should I tear it down or try to reconstruct?

Am I a simple weed or a flower you plucked?

Am I here only for your self-esteem?

These things you say make me scream

But of course I stay silent in this house

Quiet as a teeny tiny mouse

Careful not to slip up and speak my mind

Because you say you’re dying

And I don’t want to kill you

I know what you’ve been through

I guess that’s why I stick around

But again I do not make a sound

Because I’m the only reason you’re alive

And it’s hard to leave when I’m in charge of life

But these hands weren’t meant for holding you

And this skeletal body isn’t made of glue

And when you said you needed me

Did you ever stop to think, “maybe

My daughter needs me as well”

That’s why my new house is a hotel

sad poetry
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