The kitchen drips with oil from mothers cooking
And small roaches crawl in the tiniest of cracks
The floor, broken, like glass, I feel the sugar pierce my feet
Voices from every corner, they are like talking planners
Shrimp soup boils over the tin foiled oven
Lacking insulation, the smell is the only warmth we receive
There are drawings on the wall, I should clean it, but that\'s what I said ten years ago
Tacky wall colors, and fake paintings of flowers, a bed in the living room
Embroidered with instability.
The clock in the wall that misreads time, tells the time of the occupied
Luxury is but a concept of the aesthetic, not the poetic
There is a harmless fire coming from the bitten thin walls
And my foot bleeds from the sugar in my feet
This is home, and home this will be.