house of broken things

finding their way through the doors
dying on my floors
in their quest to escape from the rain
fresh air
calling to me to breathe it in
but the blinds are broken
and I can’t see outside
flooding the floors with water
giving me tons of bother
because the garbage disposal doesn’t work
the dryer monster
that eats my clothes
and leaves little holes
in the few shirts I can still fit in
the smell
of stinky wet dogs
and moldy wet bogs
because of the flooding of the dishwasher

should I be sad because I live in the house of broken things?
or do the things break around me
as a reflection of my heart
and the life I have witnessed lately

because I am sad and broken
and moldy around the edges
because I’ve been sitting in disrepair
for too long.


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