My Old Red House

I come from that old red house

on top of a mountain

The  red rooster’s alarm clock

and the flowers slowly sprouting
 

Where the fog settles peaceful

between each valley’s dip

while in that old red house

drunk and hateful they’d sit

I come from “their out of their mind”

that therapists tried to fix

the attempts to hold hands

but unable because of fists

From all the long nights

and constellation prayers

the worries for my life

and always being scared

I come from hiding the bruises

mask it with a smile

No one needed to know

I was always in denial

“I fell down the stairs”

“I got tangled in barbed wire”
That’s what I come from

being that professional liar

Running was the norm

a day to day basis

No house and no home

just a pillow and a blanket

Where life was always in question

and eyes grew in the back of my head

I come from those days

I was scared of being dead

Refusal for help

this struggle was my own

I did for myself

I didn’t need anyone

I come from that self hope,

those dreams, those wishes

That try, try again

and “fake it till you make it”

The struggle of a day

a minute

a second

That is where I come from

but miraculously, I’ve made it.