The place that I come from is familiar to a cardboard box

Carved and hollow but with an imagination

It was all I could fathom in my thoughts.

The place I called home was always damp and moist

Empty and spacious full of void in every room.

The walls were pale, without life and color

The walls were stained with mildew from the thin roof,

With gaping cracks like a broken fortress.

The walls were also bare

Family oriented pictures held no position, nor murals on display.

The walls were thin and secretes easily became everyone's business indirectly.

The air fluctuated based on the weather and/or season

During the winter the walls would be damp, from the outer moister seeping in

Cold enough that the warm air I would exhale could be seen as I shivered under quilts to keep warm.

This is why place that I come from is familiar to a cardboard box.