Your house,

is built from the colourless lines of someone else’s home.

Empty rooms, empty staircases, empty closets.

Empty hearts still beat,

but they live within the flaking white

of a fading paint job.

Your house,

sits alone in a bland landscape.

Where birds soar to avoid the view of your horror-movie house,

and where grass and corn-rows are the only occupants.

Where a train passes by only once a day,

to avoid lingering in the area.

Secluded.

Separated.

Your house,

built without colour,

is where your mind lives.

Fence built so high,

that trying to cut it down is impossible.

The barbed wire that lays wrapped around the very veins of life

that were dying without colour,

will cut you too.

My house,

is built across the street but, perhaps in a parallel dimension from yours,

where laughter and peek-a-boo’s paint over any cracks,

with a porch swing out front,

where dangling feet of a happy childhood beat with heart of their home.

In your mind,

you tear my house down,

along with all the rest,

and try to replace it,

with your own,

the one I know you still fear.

But,

what is a neighborhood,

with no neighbors?

Is it still home?

No, certainly not a home.

Your home is crumbled into dust,

at the back of your eye,

and in the back of your thoughts.

My home,

is echoed in every word I breathe

and every step I take.

You.

The you I know is different.

The you I know would trade,

the grimy,

the grim,

the gray,

the grotesque,

for a sneak peak,

of the rainbow,

of hope,

of a house,

of a home.

But,

they grab you and pull you down.

Toe by toe,

crawling up your leg,

feeding on your insecurities,

feeding on your pain.

You laugh to yourself now,

and you laugh to me,

but not out-loud.

Never out-loud.

Soon,

You are brought back to the corner,

Of a house that is not a home,

to the friends that are not kind,

to the colourless life that you don’t want to be yours.

Your house,

is built from the colourless lines of someone else’s home.

Empty rooms, empty staircases, empty kitchen.

Empty hearts still beat,

but they live within the flaking white

of a fading paint job.

Love lies between the half-finished paint job

and the half-faded paint job.

Your mind lives within the empty rooms of an empty house

but, your heart lives within the rainbow flakes

of a fading paint job.