poetry

Behind that door

Mama dreamed of having a house of her own
And after a while so did I

Adi wanted to own a palace
I just wanted a warm, cozy place

We argued at an end for months about what place I’d get
Finally, unbeknownst to him I bought a run down

My obsession for dilapidated building got to me
I painted it red and planked the window shut

Called it the house of broken yet beautiful things
The landmark was a cycle, from the yard sale

The house was me, reminded me of myself
Closed on the outside, shut and sealed

But if I ever opened the door, you’d smell
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee
You’d see
My daughter’s portrait under the one that got away.
my obsession for flowers
all kinds of green
colorful things, furniture, and a million knives
My cat sprawled on the aquatic green sofa
While I crash on the floor beside
Wired.
A fishbowl,
My retriever fighting his reflection in the mirror
placed bang opposite to the door.
Su says it helps with the evil
For no-one is evil to their reflection.

I don’t see frequent visitors
Unless they have secrets to share
bottled in Mason Jars placed on the teak wooden shelves
next to the books.
Some crash behind, some fall asleep,
a few leave even before I wake up.

Certain nights I open them for the ghosts of my past,
they come back, but I send them on their way fast.
I hang them on the sorry tree in my backyard,
let the wind carry them away.

Behind the door is a world love.
That’s where I live,
It is my home, and
Among a few, you are always welcome.

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