A House Isn't My Home

May 2010


A garbage pail is still the garbage, even if there is no waste in it,
but the trash is not my house, and a house is not my home,
not my home where shades of blue, are the sole color seen,
when no one shares my room, my room is then my home.
My room is still my room, even if the scent isn't somewhere lingering,
wish you would realize yes we can, the notebooks are now my home,
the pages are still lined, even if there are no words there to hold up,
if someone pulled out all the blue lines, would all the words fall?
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