My Old Home

My Old Home

My old home in the beautiful hills.
Where I was raised without frills.
So the trees leaves were blowing.
Where a creek was gently flowing.

For years she stood as I dreamed.
Home of all my imaginary things.
As a kid I dreamed of tomorrow.
Becoming special in my sorrow.

Those dreams are gone in my life.
I no longer live a life of a dreamer.
I live in reality and know the home.
It will eventually rot and fall down.

No traces of the home will be left.
Just a pile of wood I called home.
My home in those beautiful hills.
Raised on bluegrass in Kentucky.

BY: Kings