Home is half house — half desperate escape.
Embedded ties best to avoid
–a younger self in hope of relief.
Pretence and fashion and kissing
–knives offer no release.
Dad tried to cool the surface
with his lack of interest — always silent.
Walls decorated with the smell of sad
–the dream of a gunshot repeats.
There was no rest — until feelings made a clearance.
For some of us — the only way out is to burn.
By Lennie Varvarides, Oct 2022
I reworked this poem from the original, “Home Is A Strange Place”.
How many others revisit old poems in the hope of making them better?
Is a poem ever really finished?
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