Below is the poem entitled The Stranger in the House which was written by poet
Hicks. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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I wander through this house
As silent as a mouse
Though it is my own I feel I've been away
I'm rather speechless, having not much to say
I see my brother working in the shed
Just passing the time as if he's seen red
I see my other brother smoking a cigarette
With no enthusiasm... has he too seen red?
I do my daily routine
Pace, contemplate and clean
Though something is not quite right
This summer day bears no light
I come into the living room
Usually lively... filled with joy
Now it's naked and abandoned
Like a toddlers chest of old toys
But wait... I see Mother on the couch
She's sad with wet crimson face
She doesn't even say hello
Has my coming here been a waste?
"Why are you crying Mother
Have I done something wrong?"
She just sobs and sobs
... a rather disquieting song
My father looks down at her
With a smile
But something about him
Seems quite vile
"I miss him... I miss him so much"
She cries so helplessly
"Who do you miss Mother?
I don't understand what you mean..."
My dad buts in with no consideration
Revealing horrible secrets in such wicked display
"Alright, alright... I confess... I killed him!
But quite you're crying about it, it's better off this way!"
It all comes to me
In such a sudden burst
I feel the intense hatred
So much it hurts
I'm not here... I don't exist... (at least not anymore)
I'm the stranger in the house!
But soon I'll get my revenge
I'll make Father feel as tiny as a mouse!
I know what you've done
I should've known all along
I will tell everyone
And correct this home gone wrong
I'll come to life again! I'l---
Blanket wet... I feel cold...
Why am I laying down? Was all that just a---
"Morning son! I've made you breakfast;
Scrambled eggs and french toast, your favorite!"
Could he really? ... no...
Just a dream...
NOTE: This entire dream actually happened to me. The only thing that was fiction was the part about my dad making me breakfast in the morning.
For Russel Sivey's Dream Contest
03 - 19 - 2013