My House

My house is made of cards and glass
a frame of sticks and straw
a base of mud
a roof of tin

I am confined to these four corners
defined by the paint peeling from the walls
the veil of glass shards under my feet
pricking me like little needles

Pungent and fetid
radiating from the carpet
heat seeking and
desperate to invade my senses

Lead chipping from the ceiling-
the ceiling might cave in
The roof may realize it can longer shield me
It cannot hold my burdens, any longer

The thin walls might falter
might waver against the loud noise
the forte of shouting and yelling
It’s all subject to collapse

The windows cracked
like the veins
Shattered church mosaics
that open to the little light that never shines

I cannot breathe in these cramped quarters
in the dark of my basement
in the cell of a prison
in the bowels of a slave ship

I am suffocated from every angle
until I can’t breathe
until I am no longer happy
nor welcome in my own home

I am on the cusp of eviction
in a situation that for once cannot be solved through diction
These walls talk for me
as I still struggle around the lyrics of my Harlem fiction

I cannot step outside the front door
though I try so hard I am always trapped
I am convinced I can’t make it outside these walls
the same walls that crowd and constrict

The price of living has become unreasonable
My indentured wages cannot pay these bills
I’m desperate and cutting deals
These walls will tumble any second

My pride has long since crumbled

I stay-
squalering in the filth and debris
because I fear I do not deserve anything greater

I stay-
choking around my pride
because I feel I am not equal

I stay-
decaying in poverty
because I have always settled for less

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