A Letter to My Younger Self, Defining Home

i feel fortunate you are awake, although
time is well beyond zero
and i know, our sentiments do not align

you feel

incapable of being beyond emptiness
alone, as you sit and you wait
inside a hollow house which impersonates 

Home –
relating to the place where one lives
of personal refuge
which tells a story.

i know you feel lost
you remain elusive
to dreaming due to
autonomous controversy:

what makes a house a Home
and will you find it on your own?

nightmares void of sleep
thoughts echo
uncontained, in spite of frames 

wishing art could always
compensate, for that which is
inarticulate, a lack of
love, abandoned space

layers of paint
secrets the walls wield
air heavy with smoke
and words unspoken, choke

empty cupboards
empty chest
resounding darkness

Home –
a place where you belong.

you lie awake, curious about people
who grow flowers for their lungs
and paint their houses like the sun
who borrow beauty from the world
to make a space where they 

feel safe
find comfort

terror tucks you in and
silence puts you to sleep

loneliness is vast, arduous to belong to. 

Home –
old english, hām
(not like the pig)
a village where many souls are gathered
emphasis on the gathering of souls.

it is not your fault you will
look for Home in people
instead of places

safe arms to hold you
protected and accepted
an emotional connection
attitudes, ideas aligned

a place where you belong.

it is not your fault they will
leave you, believe
they intended to stay

Home –
is not something they can give to you
it is something you must create
for yourself.

learn from grief as love
unexpressed, yet to be spoken
art – iculation
for your heart, unbroken

grow flowers for your lungs
paint your house like the sun

and one day
you will awake
to find consolation

your sense of belonging
never exceeding the extent
of self acceptance.
you are your

Home –
the place where you belong.