A home.  A simple idea. Something many do not have and what others take for granted.  It’s foundation supports the walls and all that under a roof.  Secure.  It holds families, friends and strangers. Memories. Made within those walls, displayed upon walls hung by nails, tape and tacks.  First steps, first words, first fights and first loves. Pictures of people. People in our lives. Hung on a wall.

Walls, that seem lately to be closing me in. Trapping me from the outside world.  Outside. Is dangerous. People fighting with each other, not with fists but guns.  Bullets fly free like flags. Some flags not so free, lie lifeless. Lifeless because of hate.

I have hate.  In my heart. Suffocating the beats of my life.  This place I call home, within its plaster walls and stained carpets, I hate.

My neighbors above. Kids walk with heavy feet. Mom screaming at the kids. Doors slamming shut. Pharmaceutical doors of constant people in and out.  Doors open.  They close. That’s what they do.  Who passes through the threshold, is your choice. 

Two years. We have lived. Here. Rent raised. Renovations and reserve. Solicitors and pizza delivery.  Violence against others. Suicides and guns drawn. Police here everyday.  I hate. It.

I am done doing. Nothing. Done staring at these walls. Done. Feeling hopeless and having all this doubt. I should be doing what I set out to. Making a difference. In this world, in someone’s life. Not mine.

This place. This place I call home. Saddens me.  Alone a lot. With thoughts. Needing a change. A change for better. We seek a new home. New walls. New dreams and ideas. But nobody is giving us a fucking break. A break.  From this place.  This place i call home. The walls enclosing me. This place i call home that’s filled with hate.

Love. Love my wife. Love our kids. The furry kind. But hate. This place. This place I call home.