These Walls: Is This House A Home?

Is this house a home?

Or just a book judged by its cover–

Its pages are a moral opposite,

Chapters tell of something other,

Than the story it tries to sell on the outside

The grass may be greener but,

These walls, aren't exactly a "truth‐lover"

The disguise of a "brightside" leave shadows of doubt

What can't be seen through the windows–

What's behind these walls–

An ominous sense of consciousness

Chills down to the bone

The droning echo of a dial tone

These walls, are painted with fear

Stairs groan with every step

Creaking floors fill the ear,

And ceilings leak secrets

Screams come from down the hallway, from rooms that reek of torment

Broken records that play on a vicious cycle

Broken glass mirrors reflect recurring nightmares

Leaving wake in the coldest of sweats

Tell me– Is this house a home?

Can I tell you?

In these walls people are known, but not known

Surrounded, yet still, alone

They might as well be on their own–

They sleep but are not at all rested

Eat but are not filled

Speak but are not heard

They're seen, but not seen

Lights flicker and shadows move–

The monsters don't hide in the closet, or under the bed

And if these walls could talk,

Their teasing laughter would echo through the halls

They might as well be empty–

The outside may seem pretty, but in reality...

The house is burning

No rain can douse this fire

Tell me– Is this house a home?

Or just a book, judged by its cover

Or rather, a building, judged by its architecture

These walls have reaped what they've sown

And it's about time, I let them burn and build my own