On a hillside sits a crooked home,
bright, alive, and warm—
a place that tilts with whimsy,
as if laughter built its walls.
Home feels full
because my people are here,
their footsteps and stories
filling the air.
It is more than a shelter;
it’s the echo of memories,
the rhythm of routines,
the soft hum of traditions.
Home is the quiet call within,
a longing for calm—
a fireside glow,
curled close to loves.
We move houses,
whether streets or oceans away,
but the nostalgic ember of home
is the one we carry in our chest.
Home is about them,
and just us.
Home sweet home,
a place built from within.
