I tell myself it's just a house, a place where people dwell.
A roof, some walls, a solid door. A thing that we should sell
So why should I feel sadness, at thought's of leaving here?
I guess it's from the things I see, The years that I hold dear.
The children playing in the yard, a dining-room table tent.
The games of hide and seek we played, the special moments spent.
Mommy singing at the sink, when she thought no one could hear.
The scent of pipe smoke saying, that my love was drawing near.
Cinnamon and apples, the tinsel on the tree.
The birth of new born kittens, are some things that I see.
The tears, the wishes, the laughter, the dreams that didn't come true.
The happiness shared together. The people passing through.
The simplest things are special, they're treasures of the heart.
That's why the thought of leaving here, causes tears to start.
I've never wanted riches, or castles in the sky.
I've only asked for happiness, and things that money can't buy.
I've searched through books, in fantasy, for what my life
should be.
When all of the time those answers, were hiding inside of me.
The answers were beside me, I didn't need to roam.
They're within the place I'm living, the place that I call home.
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