You are about to read a poem ,

It’s title “this house doesn’t feel like home”

You probably bumped into this blog, 

Or you have been following through all along .

You are in a public vehicle, 

On your bed,  in the kitchen,  at school, buying Christmas gifts, 

Or like the writer, 

In between sheets. 

You just had breakfast or you aren’t hungry. 

There is something in your mind,  someone is talking to you,  an ambulance is passing by 

Your phone rings, 

The lady who always says hi to you doesn’t show up, 

Your mum wants you to wear the white shirt for Christmas,

Your dad asked you to help him wash the car ,

You want to rest and just watch movies for Christmas, 

But there is gonna be those family thingies 

Or like the writer you can’t get up from in between your sheets. 

You are probably tired now, 

Wondering why you are reading this 

Or why you even bother to follow through ,

But you wanna know about the house, 

And your mind ponders on whether it’s where the writer is right now, 

On a Saturday morning 

The Eve of a chrismasless day .

Then something distracts you 

Or you just don’t like the writer anymore, 

Maybe you love her or you are never sure how you feel about her. 

You are tired, 

Curious and sad… 

Or happy, 

Some people, unlike this writer manage to stay happy for more than an hour, 

And that’s beautiful, 

But the writer isn’t sad. 

She is an active mountain, 

With various emotions as her lava 

And she explodes. 

She’s in between a pair of chalk white sheets 

Trying to fall asleep before she falls apart. 

Her mind is weary, 

Her heart weak 

And her soul is aging

No! Not gracefully at all. 

She worries about global warming, 

This corrupt country, 

The rulers of the day. 

She worries about Syria, 

Wondering if anyone will survive there, 

Cause if they don’t die, 

They are pychologicaly destroyed. 

She is in between a pair of freshly cleaned sheets, 

Her heart is pounding, 

And in the next room someone is on the phone, 

The water is running and the stairs creak every time she tries to sleep .

She used to sit at the corner next to the window, 

And read books, 

Borrowed books, 

Bought books, 

Collected books, 

Torn books, 

Big books, 

Small books 

But most times stolen books. 

 The light doesn’t come in anymore, 

She can’t steal books anymore. 

So she stays in between a pair of light weight sheets, 

And she writes herself a book she will steal, 

It’s title “this house doesn’t feel like home”

Acknowledgement .

“To the young madam who always finds book to steal.

  Lately there have been no books to read,  not because the writers stop writing but because they don’t write many books in Braille, and you my love are going blind.  Thank you for encouraging me to write. ”



tomorrow isnt Christmas, 

No. It can’t be, 

Not in a house Like this, 

Not in a house that smells of yesterdays watermelon and Monday’s tears. 

Not in a house with no light, 

Yet full of voices, 

Creaking stairs, 


You ask how I went blind. 

Allow me to explain. 

It was…

In a homeless house .

#excepttoabookiwillneverwrite and a Merry Christmas to all of you. 

We wear who stays and who leaves in our skins -Christopher

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