Its not a house that I can ever live in or own,
But I dream of it,
Sitting on that lawn,
Amidst the tulips, the groves,
Lost in thoughts and words,
The stories I shall tell, the poems I shall write.
The gardener brings me flowers,
The maid, brings me lemonade,
The vines, the ivy, twirl just for me,
And my family, I, are joyous, happy,
Cos who can be unhappy with so much space?
In such a place?

In comparison,
The plants at my own place are stubborn and thorny,
They grow wild, like jungle beasts,
When my friends visit, I tell them the weeds are my plants,
For they seem to grow stronger, healthier,
Than the prettier ones, that struggle,
Wishing for life to slip away than stay,
Living it seemed, only because I ask them to.
My family squabble,
My maid too, no lemonade in sight,
The house seems muddy, unkempt.

And I dream again of the Lavender home,
The perfect bushes, the happy people,
Of the life that I can only dream of,
Of a life that I can escape to,
I pick a brush, and a canvas for my dreams,
I throw those colors of my aching heart,
The song of my greedy soul,
And this house, I build as I want,
This Lavender home,
Mine,
My precious.

I admire it so,
It is mine, I say to my friends, who come over to see
My own Lavender Home,
They are impressed, Wow, what a beauty,
And I puff with pride,
They point to a corner of the dainty canvas.
But, What’s that?
My mind screams,
Oh NO!
Oh FUCK NO!
It cannot be,
But it is.
A perfect blemish.
A yellow rot in that beautiful lavender,
A blot in my perfection,
I swear, I burn, I rage, I scream,
Get out, everyone, OUT!
And alone, in my tears, I tear this stupid canvas,
My dream,
My ever imperfect dream.

I still pass every day, by the Lavender home,
I behold it still,
My breath, its still, swept away,
This beauty, that I am destined,
To only behold,
And never own.