Her Chicken Scratch / Uncategorized

Don’t give a boy a home.

Don’t give a boy a home. Only four walls that are crumbling. How would that make any sense. He won’t always be a boy, as chance would have it – he will never be a boy. The plans for him were sturdy. Solid. Firm. Non-existent. At one point, they said they would paint the walls. A nice forest green. Such a green that would make him want to read and create things. Make him want to dance and laugh and invite serenity over. But they wouldn’t fill him in. So they painted the walls a broken grey. They left the boy to watch the walls crumbling. Falling in sync,  behind it with a plastic dust pan. Shuffle shuffle, sweep sweep.  Even the music had left the walls. They are soundless, creak less. Like they never once held any potential to strike a chorus that could change his world. Because that would be silly. Who doesn’t want crumbly walls, with an icky grey colour. Soundless. Empty. And blameless. A boy doesn’t need a home. Only four walls that are crumbling. Until he bangs out a stained carpet that only caught the walls and no swaying feet. But they wouldn’t replace it. Change it. Fix it. So he rolled it. Fitted it. Picked it. And pitched it. At the wall. The crumbly wall that blocked the sea. And it fell. Rushing to the ground. In a plume of grime. Standing there he blinked. Choked. Cried and cursed. Written by Alecia Writes  

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2 thoughts on “Don’t give a boy a home.

  1. I like how your words can have so many different meaning depending on how the reader is feeling or the situation of the reader,

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