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Literature Text
There is nothing sadder than living alone,
Or coming back to an empty home.
Turning around and expecting to see,
Someone there beside you.
"Please don't leave.
I don't think I can live
Without you."
Fireplaces no longer feel so warm,
When there is no one to share
That warmth together with.
(Winter is so cold,
But no one ever hogs the blankets.
Still cold outside. And inside.)
Chocolates in the fridge,
Still remain
After months.
(Buy a bar, never a box.
You can never finish them alone.
Or is it that you won't?)
"Give me one more minute,
One more day,
One more month,
One more year,
One more lifetime.
An eternity
To spend with you."
Stare for all you want,
At that mirror above the sink.
(But the only reflection you see,
Or will ever see there
Is yours.)
Take all the time you want,
In the morning at the toilet.
(But no one will ever holler or curse
At you for taking so long
Or tell you to hurry up.)
"Please still be there,
So I can come back home
To you."
The radio is perpetually on,
Emitting sounds all day long.
(You always listen to radio shows.
They are the only conversations
You ever hear in the house.)
Cooking is a rarity,
Takeaway is sustainable.
(You actually love cooking, but
There's no one to eat the food with.
No one to wash up, too much leftovers.)
"Je veux rentrer maison.
Ramène moi maison."
Mais il n'y a personne à la maison.
Or coming back to an empty home.
Turning around and expecting to see,
Someone there beside you.
"Please don't leave.
I don't think I can live
Without you."
Fireplaces no longer feel so warm,
When there is no one to share
That warmth together with.
(Winter is so cold,
But no one ever hogs the blankets.
Still cold outside. And inside.)
Chocolates in the fridge,
Still remain
After months.
(Buy a bar, never a box.
You can never finish them alone.
Or is it that you won't?)
"Give me one more minute,
One more day,
One more month,
One more year,
One more lifetime.
An eternity
To spend with you."
Stare for all you want,
At that mirror above the sink.
(But the only reflection you see,
Or will ever see there
Is yours.)
Take all the time you want,
In the morning at the toilet.
(But no one will ever holler or curse
At you for taking so long
Or tell you to hurry up.)
"Please still be there,
So I can come back home
To you."
The radio is perpetually on,
Emitting sounds all day long.
(You always listen to radio shows.
They are the only conversations
You ever hear in the house.)
Cooking is a rarity,
Takeaway is sustainable.
(You actually love cooking, but
There's no one to eat the food with.
No one to wash up, too much leftovers.)
"Je veux rentrer maison.
Ramène moi maison."
Mais il n'y a personne à la maison.
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I've been watching a bit of Glee lately (How did I not know of it before? Kurt is brilliant.) and Kurt's rendition of A House Is Not A Home was extremely heartwarming.
My writing is slightly haphazard for this poem, I suppose. I'm going through a bit of a rough patch with my family lately, and love is really hard to vocalize when you're frustrated with each other. I do wish it will be over soon though...
A house is not a home, because home is where the heart is. Writing this makes me feel the same as when I was writing All Roads Lead To Home, sort of bittersweet and slightly fuzzy on the inside. It's strange to be sixteen and still waxing poetry about your family while trying to emote your love to them whereas some of my peers talk about how they can't stand or hate their parents/younger siblings all the time.
The one for hogging the blankets holds very true to me as I used to share a room and bed with my three sisters. Blankets are hogged. A random hand will splay out and slap you in the face while you sleep. A random knee might suddenly dig you very painfully in the back. You hear your sisters sleeptalking about homework in their sleep. And these are nothing but memories now.
The chocolate part is actually taken from my friend's experience. She tells me that chocolate or ice cream in the fridge will not survive for more than a few days in her home without being eaten up by someone. It makes me feel amused and sad at the same time, because they always go uneaten in my home.
My old house used to only have one toilet. Mornings are full of exasperation and desperation, since everyone wakes up around the same time and has to leave around the same time as well. And to think that my father still reads the morning paper in the toilet.
The radio one is something I can relate to very well at the moment. I can't sleep without listening to some radio show on my phone before sleeping. The silence is strange, seeing that there mostly is conversation going around the four of us in the bed as we try to sleep (I used to complain incessantly about it).
The last three lines are French. I'm not really proficient in French, but they should mean
"I want to go home.
Take me home."
But there's no one home.
My writing is slightly haphazard for this poem, I suppose. I'm going through a bit of a rough patch with my family lately, and love is really hard to vocalize when you're frustrated with each other. I do wish it will be over soon though...
A house is not a home, because home is where the heart is. Writing this makes me feel the same as when I was writing All Roads Lead To Home, sort of bittersweet and slightly fuzzy on the inside. It's strange to be sixteen and still waxing poetry about your family while trying to emote your love to them whereas some of my peers talk about how they can't stand or hate their parents/younger siblings all the time.
The one for hogging the blankets holds very true to me as I used to share a room and bed with my three sisters. Blankets are hogged. A random hand will splay out and slap you in the face while you sleep. A random knee might suddenly dig you very painfully in the back. You hear your sisters sleeptalking about homework in their sleep. And these are nothing but memories now.
The chocolate part is actually taken from my friend's experience. She tells me that chocolate or ice cream in the fridge will not survive for more than a few days in her home without being eaten up by someone. It makes me feel amused and sad at the same time, because they always go uneaten in my home.
My old house used to only have one toilet. Mornings are full of exasperation and desperation, since everyone wakes up around the same time and has to leave around the same time as well. And to think that my father still reads the morning paper in the toilet.
The radio one is something I can relate to very well at the moment. I can't sleep without listening to some radio show on my phone before sleeping. The silence is strange, seeing that there mostly is conversation going around the four of us in the bed as we try to sleep (I used to complain incessantly about it).
The last three lines are French. I'm not really proficient in French, but they should mean
"I want to go home.
Take me home."
But there's no one home.
© 2015 - 2024 TheMilkyWayGalaxy
Comments6
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It's a good thing I'm not living alone like I had been for 15 years (after 28 years hell marriage) because this poem would hurt a lot. I'm living with family, so the loneliness isn't as bad. I'm newly out of a 4 year relationship (such as it was). Your words rang true in so many places. And even if they didn't I still would have enjoyed reading it. Nicely done.