this house a home

Wood box it doesn't feel like room seems the blankets torn

beneath the bottom of my spot the bricks gave out, the foundations worn,

the dreams I used to have skipped town, like little small stones

and bayous where I used to roam, and bottles of aged Boones Farm,

hours of walking down old dusty roads napkins keep the sneakers clean,

and pictures glare of Mr. Clean, that's the suns nickname.

And I'm supposed to treat you right, while you poke all those holes in me,

and you supposed to be my wife, but you've been so cold to me.

I still stood and took it all in, this is my old shoe box, filled with millions

of memories, standing times and when I just fell in.

The sign that read my last name blew with storm rains, I feel that these

are real names that makes your baby strong, just barely holding on.