But It's My Home

But it's my home. Yes, my house is messy. I feel like an outcast sometimes. But that's the way life goes. I walk through the front door, the quietness is almost loud. But it's my house. I yell for someone, the echo takes over me. I wait for hours on end for someone to get home, still no one enters the front door. But it's my home. The memories of playing games and laughing have disappeared inside of me. The memories have turned into lies, make-belief stories I've thought of. But it's my home. After what felt like an eternity, I hear a noise, it's my Mom, the Mom that loves and cares for me. We get into fights time and time, but she's still my Mom. But it's my home. After mom, Dad comes through the door. Yes, we have disagreements, he's still my Dad. He's the reason I have this home. Because it's my home. They brought me a gift, not now but when I was younger. The gift of life. One of the best gifts. Along with that they provide for me, love me, and they take care of me. Because the sun shines. When I lay down in my bed, I escape from everything. The roof above me protects me. The pantry, the source of life. But it's my home. It's my home, but in a sense it's not. I still feel my heart strings tugging. I've been shattered too many times. But at the same time, the sun shines. But it's not just home I feel this way. I think the meaning of home is who's around you. What's around you. You and I both have to find our meaning of home. But I feel home, at home.