I don’t write a lot of happy poetry because I share my happiness fully and freely with people. I write poetry when I’m frustrated, angry, or hurt. I write poetry because I can share my thoughts without burdening someone else with them. I have plenty of people who wouldn’t consider it a burden but for me… I like you smiling.

But if you find yourself here and reading one of my darker pieces I sincerely hope it makes you feel less alone in your frustrated, angry, and painful moments. Not every emotion can be a good one. We are all just trying to make sense of a world we are just a tiny part of.

I feel it’s important to understand this poem is not about me. Often when I read something horrific I write to wrap my mind around the horror.

Recently, I read a news story about a family man who killed most of his family and himself. It’s a gruesome reminder that what we see on the outside isn’t always what can be found on the inside. This poem is about a house with growing children and learning brains but it’s really more about not knowing what’s inside a person.

A house filled with hallways

Rooms full of stretching skin

And shaping untrained muscle

Growing brains like fungus

Absorbing the joy and the pain

Not understanding the difference

But painting the walls nonetheless

With knuckles and holes and

Accidental floors pooling blood

Stubbed toes and broken bones

A house filled with hallways

Isn’t always called a home