Cracks in the Walls, Roots in the Heart

The roof above may still stand tall,

But silence echoes through each hall.

A house of brick, of paint and tile,

Yet peace has left it for a while.

Behind closed doors and shuttered light,

Not every home sleeps sound at night.

For some, the walls that once felt safe,

Now close in with a colder grace.

The dinner table’s set just right,

But forks clink soft, and eyes avoid sight.

The laughter once that filled this place,

Is now a ghost we rarely face.

The kettle boils, the floorboards creak,

But no one cares enough to speak.

The television mumbles on,

While hearts grow distant, nearly gone.

The father’s voice, once warm and kind,

Now cuts like wind in wintertime.

The mother, weary from the fight,

Stays up through yet another night.

The children tiptoe, dodge the flame,

Of tempers none can truly name.

They learn too soon what silence means—

To hide their thoughts and dim their dreams.

Once bedtime came with songs and hugs,

Now just the weight of unshared shrugs.

The toys untouched, the books unread,

The stories fading in each head.

The doors are shut, but not to cold—

To feelings that no arms now hold.

We see, we hear, yet turn away,

Letting another harsh word stay.

One argues loud, one walks away,

One cries, the other says, “I’ll stay.”

But staying isn't always peace,

Sometimes it's where the wounds increase.

The paint may shine, the lawn well-kept,

But hearts within are not well-swept.

We sweep the dust beneath the rug,

Avoid the truth, ignore the tug.

That something's wrong, has long been wrong,

Yet we pretend, we play along.

We smile for guests, we wave, we joke,

But don’t address the words we choke.

The teenage son slams every door,

He doesn’t talk, not like before.

He hides in games and blurry screens,

To mute the chaos in between.

The daughter paints on secret walls,

Her dreams, her fears, her future calls.

Yet no one knocks, no one comes near,

To ask her what she holds so dear.

The grandparents in corners sit,

Their voices slow, their eyes admit—

They've seen this play out years ago,

Where love runs dry, then ceases flow.

And in this quiet war of pain,

We speak in sighs, again, again.

No one says, “Let’s talk this through.”

They fear the storm might just break through.

And yet—

Within these walls still bruised and torn,

New roots of hope may yet be born.

A younger child with hopeful hands,

Builds towers tall from pots and pans.

A dog lies close beside a bed,

A small, soft paw against a head.

A note slid gently under door—

“I wish we didn’t fight no more.”

A whisper shared beneath the noise,

A joke exchanged that brings back joy.

A dish washed not because it's due,

But “Just because—I care for you.”

Home isn’t walls, or beds, or light,

But how we treat each other right.

It’s not perfection, not always peace,

But effort that will never cease.

It’s saying, “Yes, I made mistakes,”

And holding on through all that breaks.

It’s speaking even when it’s tough,

And loving when it’s not enough.

It’s growing past the broken parts,

With splinters still inside our hearts.

It’s choosing us, through thick and thin,

And letting every hard day in.

It’s making space for voice and tear,

For honesty, for drawing near.

It’s learning, day by day, to bend,

And not let silence be the end.

So if your home feels less than whole,

Know cracks can still protect a soul.

And though it hurts, and though it bends,

With care, the cycle sometimes ends.

It ends in tears that rinse the pain,

In talks beneath the midnight rain.

In fixing things we long ignored,

And finding what is worth restored.

For though our homes may fall apart,

They still can be a work of art—

A canvas flawed, but richly drawn,

Where love still rises with the dawn.