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Our Little Home

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Our Little Home

 

It doesn’t smell like cabbage,
What a stereotype.
Instead it smells clean, cold, and quiet,
Where every smoldering noise is heard.

Distance is what layouts our little lives,
Not much exposure to social life is expected, like bears during winter.
The only time we get to talk is through marble stands,
And a breakfast porch.
But mostly my days are spent burrowed in my room,
with a screen to my face.
Life at night usually consists of small white noises;
BANGS and CREEKS,
That sound as if robbers trep through my estate.
Once the “Boogie Man” leaves after dawn, my life repeats.
With a flick of my eyelids I am awake the next day.

School
Work
Friends
These are what blocks the roads of our home.
Dad, comes back around 6-7 to greet us home, and eat dinner with his friend,
The TV.
Mom, always home when we’re home, unless not, then it’s takeout night.
Social hour at dinnertime
A mix of Polish and English is heard throughout.
Conversations go by how
We question
The orange man in the oversized suit,
And his psychopathic supporters.
But in all my family grasps for one thing…
Success.
A future for me and my sister,
For us to be normal, and have a normal future.
For us to be happy.
That is success to us.
In our little family.






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