Smoke stained walls and foul smelling drapes.
This is home as I know it.
Tobacco dyed teeth and nappy long hair.
This is home as I know it.
Cheap faded rags and torn cotton sheets.
This is home as I know it.

I lay staring at the cobwebs erasing the white of the walls.

Home is what I call this place.
My feet dangle off the frameless matress, inches from the
filthy ground.
Home is what I call this place.
I breath in the smoke screened air, poluting my lungs ever
so slowly.
Home is what I call this place.
I gaze out the curtainless window at the starless skies and
the endless horizon of concrete slabs.
Home is what I call this place.
I turn my head towards my finger smudged door, listening to
the lound snoring sounds from the nearby room's occupant.
Home is what I call this place.

And a happy home it is.