What is a home, really?
Where the heart is, you might say.
But if a heart can break, hurt, mend, and reach out
Then how can it hold a home, too?
No, the heart is unstable.

What is a home, really?
A building, you might say.
Held up by sturdy walls with memories embedded in the floors.
But memories are made elsewhere, too; better memories, even.
No, there is no structure capable of holding every memory.

What is a home, really?
Simply put, home is comfort.
And immediately you will contest me.
For, in the home, tears are shed
Blows exchanged and curses uttered.

But in the home, there is nothing worse.
As you scream and fight, you know, deep down,
Things can only get better.
And is that not the greatest comfort of all?

If you still contradict me, what is your answer?
Can you tell me with good reason?
What is a home, really?

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