Home

Home.

Down the road, across the universe,

my body goes, and I stay.

My heart aches to belong here.

It urges my lust for nostalgia.

But The nuance of this notion,

lacks the lustre it once had.

For me, all that glitters is gone.

The silver lining, has faded.

Why would I yearn for such an obvious detriment?

Why do I make my bed in a place I wish not to lay?

I always thought this was my home.

But I know that home isn’t here or there.

Home is where you make it.

It’s the place you became the person you were meant to be.

It’s not the echo against walls closing in on you.

It’s not the place where you bury yourself in a crowd of a thousand dirty faces.

This place, I’ve called home,

Only tightens my grip on the coat tails of the past.

It steps on the toes of my future.

It laughs in the face of hope.

That’s just it.

Home is not a place at all.

It’s a feeling.

Home is inside of us.

And I’ve always looked for it in the wrong places.

I’ve always Looked behind to find nothing but shadows of doubt.

It’s time I look ahead.

It’s time to find my place, my home.

I will find it,

And that’s where I’ll always be.

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Liquid Romance

Liquid romance.

Fluid, in nature.

Deplorable, in hindsight.

How many times will I give way

To the relentless waves

Of these half empty oceans I dive into?

Head first.

I never even test the waters,

I just dive Right in,

And let the undertow take me.

Ordinary Desires

She sat there,

Staring through the smoke of her cigarette.

And she thinks,

I loathe you.

I love you.

Don’t ever come back.

Please come home.

A painful soliloquy she recites.

An arduous cycle to fall into.

How cynical,

To want to be wanted this way.

To keep lighting a flame already smothered.

To breathe warm air onto cold,

hand-me-down embers.

How vain and trivial.

How unusual,

But pivotal.

She needs this.

This vicious cycle,

That solemn recital,

A dance she’s learned over and over.

But she struggles,

With this second hand choreography.

Dancing from do to don’t,

from praise to blame.

Second guessing a second guess.

one day she’ll figure it out.

She’ll figure out every step, turn, and pause.

In time, she will stop holding onto missteps she already took.

She’ll focus on the steps ahead.

At the next recital, she won’t dance between do and don’t-

Loathe or love, 

step or pause.

This was just practice.