Home

It’s not the marble floors or vaulted beams,

Not chandeliers that glitter like dreams.

Not square footage or the grand estate

A home’s not measured by a garden gate.

It’s the way the light hits your favorite chair,

The scent of memories lingering in the air.

It’s mismatched mugs and worn out throws,

And laughter echoing down narrow rows.

People chase things that shimmer and shine,

Hang price tags on comfort like it’s a sign.

But what’s more priceless than peace of mind?

Than knowing you can just be unrefined.

I’d take the old home smell, the cracked paint,

Stained concrete porch and doors that haven’t

been new in years but swing wide with grace,

Inviting your spirit to rest in that place.

A place where your soul can take off its shoes,

Where silence doesn’t echo like bad news.

Where tears can fall and still be met with grace,

And joy has room to fill the space.

So ask yourself

quiet, now and then:

Is your home for you , or is it for them?

Is it a mirror or a mask you wear,

A showroom life or one lived with care?

You see, home’s not built from things you buy

It’s where your spirit doesn’t have to try.

It’s love in corners, softness in the walls,

A gentle landing when the world calls.

Let them chase gold and polished stone,

I’ll take what’s worn but truly my own.

Because the richest thing I’ll ever own

Is a door I open and call my home.