This house is starting to feel less like home
Every time I come back its to dense for me to fit
The memory’s stick to the wall like tar and the stains on the carpet I can no longer see
Its become to full of moving parts and stationary reminders
The layout is ingrained in my hands
I could pour myself a cup of milk in the kitchen sound asleep
Yet I still manage to stub my toe on every corner
Especially the one coated with pencil marks
Theses halls watched me grow
Like a grandmother insecure about the passing of time they drag me back to youth
The mirrors show a younger me
The ones I hoped I'd left behind
But we all sleep together in the bed of restless nights
craning our neck to meet eyes with the window
The slight sway of silhouetted leaves is still mesmerizing
The three stars that make up the top of my left check still tell me its alright
This house
What is home
Do I need to find it again
The hardest part is to start looking
About the Creator
Goldie
Addiction to my pen sweeping cobwebs in my mind
The brief feeling of structure when my thoughts start to rhyme
The Road to Nowhere
Trigger warnings: Violence, Death. "May the Sun burn your tongue out, woman," Fredrick's father screamed the curse into his mother's ear as their elegant little carriage rumbled along, its polished wood and gilded trim glinting in the torchlight. They had just left the small village of Saffron and were on an unnamed road to the capital for the Royal wedding. Fredrick leaned back in his plush velvet seat to escape into the passing landscape, but across from him sat the servant boy, a scrappy lad named Jack. Jack's eyes held a mixture of awe and fear, the kind that only a commoner could feel in the presence of nobility. Jack looked up and caught Fredrick's gaze, offering him a sad little smile before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a little caramel treat. This candy was no doubt stolen from the kitchen treat cupboard; if he was caught with it, he would be locked in the box as punishment.
By Frank English7 days ago in Fiction
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