Home Is Just A Four Letter Word
Home is just a four letter word,
it is not an iron clad safe
where nothing can touch you.
Your heart will be stolen
and belongings pawned.
And inviting me in
would be the worst thing you could do.
Home is just a four letter word,
which is often used to describe the heart.
But really what we're saying is:
I wanna be where you are,
always.
But a home is not permanent,
it can be moved and torn down.
And just like my heart, it can be broken.
My home is not that place where I spent most of my life.
My home is not where I slept and ate,
where I watched movies
and played childish games like bug in a rug.
It's not where I unwrapped Christmas gifts
or even carried with you.
My home is not a four letter word.
My home is not a tangible thing,
like a heart or a window.
Regardless of what it is:
it can still be broken with age,
torn by tragedies,
and relocated with love.
It is something that can be stolen from me,
by sharing the terrible truths of reality.
In this home,
I nurse a heartbreak from your screams
when they would hit you.
I couldn't do anything to save you.
They never touched me
and so,
it still is.
The dreams that surround the walls,
keep me from hearing the truths
so it seems I'm invincible,
until,
I invite you in.
And that was the worst thing I could do.
You consume my home,
batting away the much needed sleep
and awaking my desires,
which I've so carefully kept locked away,
till the day fades away.
They invade my home
and it is alive,
too long.
I can't keep up.
Alone, this home is too large for one person.
Home is just a four letter word,
it is not an iron clad safe
where nothing can touch you.
Your heart will be stolen
and belongings pawned.
And inviting me in
would be the worst thing you could do.
Home is just a four letter word,
which is often used to describe the heart.
But really what we're saying is:
I wanna be where you are,
always.
But a home is not permanent,
it can be moved and torn down.
And just like my heart, it can be broken.
My home is not that place where I spent most of my life.
My home is not where I slept and ate,
where I watched movies
and played childish games like bug in a rug.
It's not where I unwrapped Christmas gifts
or even carried with you.
My home is not a four letter word.
My home is not a tangible thing,
like a heart or a window.
Regardless of what it is:
it can still be broken with age,
torn by tragedies,
and relocated with love.
It is something that can be stolen from me,
by sharing the terrible truths of reality.
In this home,
I nurse a heartbreak from your screams
when they would hit you.
I couldn't do anything to save you.
They never touched me
and so,
it still is.
The dreams that surround the walls,
keep me from hearing the truths
so it seems I'm invincible,
until,
I invite you in.
And that was the worst thing I could do.
You consume my home,
batting away the much needed sleep
and awaking my desires,
which I've so carefully kept locked away,
till the day fades away.
They invade my home
and it is alive,
too long.
I can't keep up.
Alone, this home is too large for one person.
