Home is what this place is called,
Home, our absolute heaven,
Place of tranquility,
No such place is established.

Home, is this place?
It holds the name but no meaning,
With all this obscenity,
A gathering place, a shouting match.

This family as though each begins a string,
Woven vigorously into a cloth of dread,
With each day a new square is made,
Soon a blanket keeping us from on another.

 Is there any torch?
That can burn this blanket away?
Is there any therapist?
That can make my brothers okay.

This fighting, this sound of pure hatred,
Their echoes of curses ringing in my ears,
All those words, harsh words,
Turning friend into foe.

  Love is not meant to be like this,
Families are meant to be one,
Fathers to sons, Mothers to daughters,
Children are prizes for parents to cherish.

But although we are not close,
And not even one in full,
This mosh-pit is my family,
And this place is my home.

By Amanda Mest