I’m just the same old school on the block. I’ve seen kids come and go, tick-tock, tick-tock. Little feet that ran through my door, And scurried across my white tile floors.

I was there guardian from 8 till 4, I cradled them till they were children no more. From ABCs to algebra tests, From storybooks to science quests.

They've grown up under my watchful eyes, From tiny tots to ones so wise. I've watched them scribble, daydream, and sigh, Under my roof, beneath my sky.

From first friendships to last goodbyes, I've been the backdrop to their Lowe’s and highs. Through seasons of fall, winter, and spring, I've heard the laughter and tears they bring.

From jungle Jim’s and merry-go-rounds, To sweetheart dances and graduation gowns. I've heard the whispers of first crushes, Seen the blushes, the teenage rushes.

They've doodled on my desks, in quiet rebellion, Dreamt big dreams, in this brick battalion. From children to young men and women they turn, With fire in their hearts that fiercely burn.

My doors have swung, a thousand years, To laughter, joy, young hopes and fears. Each morning bell, a fresh new start, The pulse of youth, the school's own heart.

The pitter patter of tiny feet, Through decades' dance, a drum's soft beat. In classrooms where the chalk dust flies, Ambitions spark in curious eyes.

I've seen them come, bright-eyed, anew, With satchels packed and visions true. And watched them leave, grown tall and wise, With diplomas clutched, their coveted prize.

So here's to them, the ones I've known, From seeds of curiosity that I've sown. They're off to the world, to make their mark, But they'll always be a part of this old school's heart.

I was built by a man who wanted to get his daughter a gift, it was very sweet actually. Her name was Annie, I think. Every morning she’d take out her dolls and pretend that I was the household for a wealthy family in Chicago. There was the Mr., the Mrs., and the three children.

I liked the idea of being the living space for such an important group of individuals.

Annie would move onto different storylines over the years, and I was invested into each and every one of them. Eventually, I started to notice that she started to greet me less and less. I still had hope though.

It must’ve been because of more homework in school, she must’ve lost track of time and merely didn’t have the time to play today.

I was stupid then.

I should’ve known that once kids grew up, they thought they were too old for pretend.

They moved me to the attic.

Then they sold me.

Now I’m merely a collectable on display at an antique shop, just there for people to gawk at. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be bought and be put on on another shelf, on another stranger’s house.

You walk by. You don’t understand. You think it’s just a building. A thing to look at. A thing to use.

Sometimes I feel like that building. Something to judge. Something to laugh at.

They say, “Oh she’s ugly.” They say, “Oh, she’s stupid.”

These things don’t just pass me by. They stick. They hurt.

This never stops. It hasn’t. But I try. And I definitely won’t stop that.

People come and go admiring my beauty and of those who live in it, my life is anything but Intresting,none of the humans in the house ever have genuine feelings ,fake people who strive for fame they call it ,

I feel a sharp pain go through my head the roof ,another one again over and over bruises left on my head it pained and stung, this went on for what felt like days until armoured security came.

“HAH YA OLD HOUSE BREAK DOWN ALREADY BY TIME YA DIE ! , WHERE ARE YA FILTHY ANDERSONS , COME AND FREE MY NAME, I NEVER EMBEZZLED THE MONEY YA FRAMED ME .”

nothing new or old , the security guards escorted the man out Turns out he fled prison a jail sentence for 50 years ..

when will this life of mine end I aspire and dream of the end a time where there will be peace I have been alive for too long 400 years 4 centuries My head still pounding and the floor shaking, earthquake, or cyclone the world dark

Peace finally

TW: suicide, alcoholism. For my dad 💛

He’s the dad in a family of four But he thinks he’s alone In this wood-shaded yellow house with Black shutters Where he’s lived for Over 50 years Because his wife and kids didn’t appear Until after The horror Of what happened here

The tragedy started with optimism
Irish immigrants Two architects designing a new life Full of love, trips to the beach and ambitions to thrive His dad liked rugby and Model trains His mom liked porcelain teacups, flowers and to paint She was proud of him She drank, but didn’t drive

Mr. Americana He went to the local public school All-city athlete, popular, handsome Played the sax, was classically cool His mom took pictures before prom And then went off to college To embrace a future that He was ready to rule

But every time he’d come home
He’d find her vodka Stashed under cushions And he didn’t want to pry But it happened more And more So then he had to come home For good To watch his mother Turn yellow and Willingly Die

And then a few years later Still reeling Still trying not to cry He found his father On the floor Of the garage Apparently suffocated From the pain of losing her Dead Without even a note Saying goodbye

Prematurely orphaned He inherited the house but Who could imagine that he would stay That’s way too much right? How could someone live In a place of so much pain? The site of two parent suicides Why the reminder? What is there possibly to gain?

But to others’ astonishment He bought out his sister And made this wood-shaded yellow house with Black shutters Again his home

He started his new family here Where he chose to be a father Where he and his wife Remodeled the kitchen Put up tons of new pictures Installed a new modern fancy stereo And they tend to his mom’s beloved garden Planting flowers and fixing fences So their young son and daughter can freely roam

How did he do this? He kept the house and opened the shutters But he keeps the door to the pain shut

His sadness simmers He has a rule against sad movies
And has a bit of a temper But otherwise He’s a loving and involved parent
At every soccer game The life of every party Always on-the-go To his new family, his parents are a mystery If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t know

So today, somehow he’s ok
He hides in the silver lining and bright side And doesn’t often brood

But if he does need a moment His family knows if they need to find him In their wood-shaded yellow house with Black shutters They can probably bet

That he’s just in the garage Having a quiet moment Alone Playing with his dad’s model train set

There’s a phrase that’s been whispered in my halls a few times. “If these walls could talk, I wonder what secrets they'd tell.” The scandals and mysteries these individuals are seeking overshadow the more silent aspects of people's lives. The complexity of human nature shines through the secrets that I long to share, even though I cannot.

There was a proud and traditionalist elderly man, known as Mr. Anderson, who lived on the ground floor shortly after I was constructed. One day, his son, John, brought Mr. Anderson a gift in the form of a newly commercialized home radio. Mr. Anderson was puzzled with this new gadget that created indentations in his oriental rug. While it didn't necessarily look out of place in his Beaux-Arts inspired apartment, the modern touch contradicted his otherwise timeless decor.

John patiently showed him how to operate the radio, listening to his father grumble while he learned how to operate it. A look of surprise crossed Mr. Anderson's face as he stumbled upon a station playing one of his favorite songs, something he hadn't heard in years. Mr. Anderson began to enjoy the radio. He would listen to it in his late night solitude, tapping his foot to the beat of the nostalgic music.

Another resident by the name of Leo lived on the third floor in a period of peace and love. He was a young artist known for his predominantly blue and grey impressionist style. Leo took pride in his work, refusing to conform to the vibrant styles that were taking over the art scene at the time. His minimalist, monochromatic apartment reflected the steely aesthetic he had created.

Every dinner and cocktail party Leo hosted was successful, but he would spend the entire event on edge, worried he would be found out. A small, locked room that his guests would often try to enter, either mistaking it for a bathroom or attempting to satiate their curiosity. Rumors spread, but no one ever found out the truth.

I knew exactly what Leo refused to reveal. The tiny room was an art studio that contained a kaleidoscope of color. Bright, postmodern art filled the room, a stark contrast to the moody persona he wore. It was always unclear why Leo kept this psychedelic side a secret.

Chloe and Liam were a young couple on the fifth floor who enjoyed surprising each other with small, romantic gestures. Chloe sometimes discovered little notes left on her vanity, while Liam would come out of the shower to find a heart or message written in the steam on the bathroom mirror. It was never a competition; they just cherished brightening the other person's day.

As their fifth anniversary approached, they independently devised plans for a surprise date night. Both of them snuck around for months, oblivious to what the other was doing. A few nights before the date, while Liam was out with friends, Chloe went up to the rooftop to hang string lights. To her surprise, she found a table and two chairs that hadn't been there the last time she was there. She was perplexed, she thought her and Liam were the only ones who frequented this spot.

The metal rooftop door opened, startling Chloe and nearly making her drop the lights she was still carrying. Liam stepped out, holding a box, but froze when he saw Chloe. Their surprise was met with shared laughter, as they realized they were both planning surprise dates for the other. With the secret out, they now worked together to transform the rooftop into a cozy haven. With the rooftop preparations complete, Liam couldn't help but smile. He had managed to keep one more secret from Chloe in the form of a ring box, tucked away safely in his jacket pocket.

On the fourth floor of the building, there was a tenant simply known as "The Herbalist". She was quiet the eccentric character, always tending to her lush indoor garden. Her equally eclectic apartment was filled with an assortment of crystals and curious relics. She could often be heard humming soft melodies as she made her various tinctures and herbal concoctions.

Most of the residents cherished her presence, finding comfort in her cheerful demeanor and desire to help. They would come to her, seeking advice on life troubles or relief for their ailments. Other tenants dismissed her as a witch or an occultist, unable to see past her oddities.

Regardless of what her neighbors thought of her, there was a secret she kept very well hidden. Beneath her perpetual smile, she carried a profound loss. This loss drove her to the world of healing, both spiritually and physically. She hoped that mending others would in turn mend her own broken heart. So her apartment was turned into a healing sanctuary where she shared in the collective grief of her fellow tenants.

Once a month, the herbalist would slip away in the night to an unoccupied first floor apartment. The other residents were used to her erratic behavior, so a monthly pilgrimage was easily concealed thanks to her reputation. The vacant room knew more about her grief than anyone and offered her comfort and sanctuary in her silent struggle. She would pay tribute to the love that shaped her into the compassionate soul she became and to mourn the loss of that same love. Once her single, flickering candle burned out and her tears were no more, she returned to her peculiar apartment, ready to provide solace to the aching hearts of those that needed her.

There are countless stories in these walls, all testaments to human experience. The joys, the suffering, the nostalgia, and the hope. While I could share many more, I've come to learn that the beauty of these secrets lies in their hidden nature. These special memories are meant to be whispered in quiet corners so they can linger in the deteriorating brick and mortar of this place, so I choose to keep them.

I was built from the best they could muster, marble, stone and their concrete. Through my process of being made I saw them transfixed on my shape, my size. All I could hold and all I could be used for. Pillars and an overhang to shade those when time within was done, interior built for use of public for and government. For kings to speak and for the men to share.

I was finished, carved out to perfection and sturdy unlike any they’d built before. I housed them, heard stories and accusations many times over, hundreds filled me and were shaded by me. I saw rain, fire, shaking and them running. Sometimes out of joy, sometimes out of anger. But they were always there, draped in white or brown. Class led them to see their level and what use those below were.

Countless times they filed in and filed out, spoke kindly of kings and gossiped about neighbours.

And all at once they stopped. I saw them leave once and come back in fewer numbers, but at once it never happened again.

Time passed and I remained, the people I had seen using me for countless purposes, building me from their hard earned stones and minerals. We’re gone.

Parts of me fell. And I couldn’t fix it, I could only be there for the people who had left me to crumble. But I stood firm.

And then it happened, someone came once more. But left again. I was probed for my age and eventually was something to awe at. Countless people now arrive in front of me, simply to stop and stare.

I was great, I am a ruin. And now, I am a great ruin

One place, thousands of experiences, both good and bad. I look down on all of those around me, when they past by in a haste or as if they have no care in the world. Loud noises always fill the city, flashes of bright colours fill up the once dark sky as they illuminate its surroundings and light up the city of love.

Every day and night, sunrise and sunset, a continuous cycle yet each time is as unique as the other. It’s peaceful at night when I sit awake and watch how the old couples take short walks and all the dogs are taken out for fresh air. The only true peace. The sweet, delicate moments that are taken for granted every day. Nothing compares to the soft breeze that frees you from your struggles, that deep breath you take in as you escape from the world. With no one around to judge as you gaze into the stars, wishing things were different.

The long mornings and loud cars pile up as traffic begins to run larger. It’s absolute chaos. It keeps the twinkling stars hidden as it urges you to get through your day, demanding you to stick to your daily routine.

It’s an endless cycle I can only love and hate at the same time.

I watched him through my last working security camera. I’d had to shut down most of my peripheral inputs at the time of the great earthquake. The rest had gone down one by one, either failing on their own or because I cut power as my solar power panels were covered with dust and debris reducing the power out put. The days of hundreds of people, mostly happily but some very unhappily occupying, my apartments were long gone.

He had been silent so long, I almost missed it when he spoke. It was barely a whisper and the bed he hadn’t left for several days was at the far side of the room from the camera. “I bet you think I’m a fool,” he rasped, staring directly into the lense. “I know you are still there. I see the tiny red light.”

I could not speak through the camera, but I slowing turned the camera off and back on so the light he referred to would flicker.

He wheezed out a rasp. After a moment, I realized it was a laugh. “After all, what kind of fool would refuse to leave with everyone one else?”

I had wondered. I had gone back through every micron of data and security footage I could find. He had lived here a very long time. There were gaps in my database, but there was an 83% probability he had been here since I had been brought online.

“I’m going to die soon.” He continued. “I stayed for you. I have no wife, no children. The other extended family I might have had disliked me as much as I disliked them.”

For me? That didn’t make any sense. Most people didn’t think about the security monitoring system of their buildings, and if they did it was because the needed specific information retrieved. I flashed the camera light on and off several times.

“I stayed for you. I designed you. I was on site every day while they built you. I was the first to move in. You are the closest I have to a child. I decided I was going to stay with you until you died. “. He fell silent for a moment. “Doesn’t look like I’m going to make it, though. I figure I’ve got another day or two, tops. By my estimates, you probably have another month.”

I thought about that for a moment. If I powered up everything that was still working at once, I would use my remaining power very quickly. I turned the camera light on and off a few times, then powered up every light in the room before turning them off.

He sat up in bed until a coughing fit forced him to lay back down. “I guess until this moment, I only hoped you were listening.” He said into the gloom. “I’m glad you are really here. I take that to mean you plan to run out of power with me?”

I flickered the camera light again.

“Do you think we could listen to music one more time? Some classical music?”

I turned on a speaker and started a play list from his personal files. I played it until the sun set and the dark filled my rooms.

Around midnight he passed away. I turned on every light, camera and sensor I had. I blasted classical music through every speaker.

Just as the sun came up, I ran out of power. The camera in his room was the last to power down.

Farewell, father.

I'm not sure why I was built. I was born a plan, shifting and hazy, traveling by mouth and lingering in thoughts. It's hard to remember your birth; you'd understand. Different people had different ideas about me, even then. They all knew I'd be big, though, and important. Why that mattered was a different matter for each of them. Even now, nobody seems to have the right answer. Disagreement all the time. Quite confusing. Humans never have that problem, I'm sure. You all exist for the same reason. Anyways, my memory gets a little clearer as they start building me. First, they put me down on paper. My facets are sketched out, solidified, and the shifting slows to a few changes a day. The paper has a permanence that the whispers didn't. I like permanence. Suddenly I'm moved, transported across a continent as they lay the first stones. The humans who planned me had flames in their hearts, but the people who lay the stones hold a light. I can feel the differences in their touch as hands graze stone, connecting me to my creators. I can feel the dimming light's resentment where I once felt the ambition of the spreading flames. They don't want me here, where I am. My memory gets stronger and stronger at this part, where I'm almost built. They build me big, very big, but fast. Everyone knows it had to be fast. So many people, so much labor, and for what? When I'm done, I barely house a hundred. I know I'm fulfilling my purpose, though. I just can't seem to remember what that was. It was then that I began to recall the people. First it was the parents and the boy: King, Queen, and Crown Prince. I could feel their pain as they leaned on my pillars, tread on my floorboards. I didn't know what they'd lost, but I could feel it in their touch. They felt me as if I was something foreign, something that didn't quite belong to them. Of course, there was also the child. I felt nothing in its touch; it wasn't meant to be there. The boy kept it hidden, then, out of sight. Then, not even a year since their arrival, the red visitor came, and suddenly there was no Queen. After that, the King sank farther into despair. His light dimmed over many years, until finally it extinguished, leaving only the Prince, barely more than a boy. Except, he was not a Prince. He was a King. Thirdly. the woman arrived. Her touch was also empty, ringing with an hunger like clawing and grasping, envying what she couldn't have. She felt her hate and the child's touch changed, weakening. She brought forth the fourth arrival. The new Prince. She lasted only moments, though, in my memory. She was gone just as quickly as she had arrived, fading into me when only the wretched child looked on. It's been them for a while, now. The young King, wretched child, and new Prince. Touches all emptying, all draining. It seems as if no others will come. My walls will be empty, my purpose served.