HouseNot homeThere’s a difference.
I may live in a houseI may sleep in its roomsBut it might not be my home.
If there were a replica of my homeAs it was builtI would despise it.
The house would be blandWithout my lavender wallsWith the occasional accidental mark.
A home wouldn’t be mineWithout the creaky floorboardsAnd the strange dent in the wall.
The house would be basicWithout the memoriesWithout my imperfections.
My house wasn’t made my homeI made it my homeIt holds my sorrows and my joys.
It holds meMy memories And I belong.