The house that she bought is nothing short of dysfunctional, a desolate wasteland of emotions dried up that was once happiness. There is love in the house that my mother bought but I will never truly call it home. Approaching the house on certain days, may not always be in your favor. The grass is often high, snarling, daring to unleash it's swarms of bugs that it has been hiding. Saving the patron only slightly once they reach the bug zapper attached to the railing, not counting the creepy crawly bugs dashing to enter the door with you. You are often greeted by smiles but a sideways glance may send a chill up your spine as you notice the candles lined up the stairway, almost spooky like a haunted house. Most likely she'll bring you a foldout or desk chair to sit in the dining room at the wooden tv tables. Hopefully you are not too short or you will be forced to watched tv through the bars of the balcony, as if you are in prison. Dare to sneak the back door? Not likely due to the "high tech" alarm system that consists of a tray rack, glass candles and chimes for the unsuspecting burglar. The atmosphere in general is drab, unfinished and discontent. These are just a few reasons why I will never call it home, sadly enough home is anywhere but here. One day, I'll find a true home until them, I'll be running far away from here whenever possible, if I am not caught in the clutches of dependency. 

This poem is about: 
My family


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