You stand outside the brown rugged houseWith roses all around and a prickly lemon tree on the sideAnd a brown layer coating the houseWith some brick stairs leading to The green fresh grassA dollhouse complexion You open the faded wooden doorThat squeaks with every movementBut rather welcoming you inYou look past The old torn up couchJust to see the family portrayed as perfectIn the picture frames consuming the bland Beige colored wall As you walk in furtherYou see things tossedEverywhere into piles of clutterAs if a natural disaster hitBut knocked things into perfectly piled up papers You walk through the whole houseAnd you begin to realize There is no dollhouseThere is no perfect familyJust a mismatched Haunted house