Never a home

This roof and these four walls,
these stained and creaking floors,
these steamed up windows,
these neatly stacked pillows,
sat on this humble old bed,
and this blankets fraying thread,
this ceiling covered in star shaped stickers,
this carpet and these slippers,
this drum kit and this piano,
this chair piled up with clothes,
these messages and drawings,
pinned up on this cork board,
this desk stained with colour,
these chair legs capped with rubber,
these blinds hanging for dear life,
this crack under the door that lets in the light,
these skirting boards lined in dust,
this old wardrobe with hinges made of rust,
these stacked and ordered tops and jeans,
hidden behind these mirror screens,
this door these hooks,
these shelves of books,
this window sill of make up and trophies,
this hidden away box of barbies and ponies,
these bags hung from this bed post,
these candles for when the power goes,
these teddies crammed wherever they can fit,
this room and al these things in it,
A house, but never home.