1-minute read time.
Please enjoy this poem by my little brother.
I am built on false foundations,
A house balanced on a cliff’s edge.
Each step is warped and broken.
Climb them, see the sagging wood floor,
Scratched by those who cared
More for the arrangement of the furniture
Than the state they left it in.
Look at the curtains, distressed and molding.
The windows they cover, shattered and boarded up.
Observe the boxes, piled high to the ceiling,
A mountain on the brink of an avalanche.
Open a box, look inside,
See the nothingness within,
Broken glass and rotten food.
Why keep them, if they can’t be salvaged?
But no, that isn’t the point.
Their value isn’t why they are kept.
They will never leave this house,
No matter how many times it is cleaned out.
You don’t want to live here, do you?
Neither do I, but this is mine.
My home, my womb, my world.
My false foundation.
