My father is a hard working man

But the home he created slowly began to crumble

This house no longer feels like home

But I’m stuck

So I read stories by Jack Kerouac and write wanderlust poems


We don’t just read stories about adventurous souls

We create them


As this place begins to lose its touch

So does my father

But the dust on the couch and the cracks in the walls are not the problem

Painting over these walls won’t prevent them from falling

Your children don’t need a house to feel at home

There is something beyond these walls

And I think I’d like to know





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