My Home is a Reflection of Who I Am by Martin Curtis

In my home, the gap under my door
Lets through the perfect little breeze
So I can breathe, sleep deep
And live at ease
Whereas the doorways where I used
To sleep (one eye always open)
Are a nightmare confined to a past
Locked out by home's strong walls and door
Home is the place where I know
Each piece of creaky floor
Where I can find the coffee which
Lives behind one of my cupboard doors
When I get back cold, curl up on a rug
Cupped in my hands, a steaming mug
To thaw away a cold night, the elements
My home is real, it has no pretence
Its scent is stale tobacco, incense, herbal tea
Those very smells say 'HOME' to me
Glowing off white colour, artexed o'erhead
Remind me of the summer sun
The freedom that my home freely gives
Means its so much more than 'where I live'.

About Martin Curtis:
Martin became homeless when he came out of prison. The draft from underneath the bedroom door inspired the poem - no home is perfect and neither are the people that live in them.