The wood is cracked,

The paint chipped,

The gutters sprouting weeds.


Leaks and watermarks make up the walls,

Warped windowsills no one dares to heed.


Down the stairs cement hits your feet

And musk meets your face.


Up past the paintings

Sunlight bathes the mess over which we pace.


Out back the rocks stand taller

Than the uncut grass.


In front the groundhog eats

The purple petunias in mass.


On a good day you can see the mountains,

Blue and crystal clear.


On a bad one

No one draws close to each other out of fear.


The mountains are indifferent,

As we attempt to be.


And for the most part we succeed,

All except for me.


I could go on to follow

One of these two paths:


To run away as fast I can,

Or stay and face my wrath.


Either way,

I can say,

With no doubts left to fear (ha!),


The glass will block

Any advice

I might have gotten from the deer.


This poem is about: 
My family


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