Estelle

At the window,

A pencil in my hand.

Light flicking.

I can see the breeze.
Some of the world is thrown into darkness.

Some bits alove,

With a warm glow.
A pale blue sky,

In the morning,

We all wake up to a new dawn.

Except some don’t. 

They go to bed and never see the sun come up.
Some go to bed waiting for bombs.

Some see the light,

While some see everlasting dark.

Home.

A word that we use,

Almost every day. 

But what does it really mean?

Home can be so many different places.

It could be where you live

Or just where you feel happy.

For me,

Home.

A word that we use,

Almost every day. 

But what does it really mean?

Home can be so many different places.

It could be where you live

Or just where you feel happy.

For me,

One of the workers

Took my painting

And put it on the wall.

She stepped back to look at me.

I am the girl with a pearl earring or Victoria. 

Once the worker leaves,

Lockers line every wall here.

It is a dull, green, and metallic maze.

Glancing at my locker card,

I follow the mob of students into the hall. 

When I finally find my locker,

It looks sad and plain,