I'll be honest.  This place doesn't suit me.
Each wall's painted white.  The carpet is
Boring.  The tiles in the bathrooms
And kitchen are nearly too dull
To describe.  They're monochrome,
Murky, wholly in keeping with all
Of the rest of this house, which,
Though pricey, seems built with
One purpose in mind:  to be
Inoffensive, yet that's what offends,
The soul-killing blandness, a trait
Which, alas, is what fills up these homes.
Every occupant's strait-laced and affluent,
White.  I'd have nothing to say to
Someone who'd live here.  I'd have no
Urge to travel these sidewalks
And streets, as the look-alike houses
Give way to vast strip malls, which
Sell garments everyone seems to find
Tasteful, and foods that prove to be
Not.  I suppose that I may as well
Stay in the home that I have, as it
Suits me somewhat, not completely,
But more than this one I am in.