Home is where the heart is
at home –
is in you
feel like home
in the world
The walls reek
of old paint,
tinted decades ago.
always white and grey.
gloominess hangs in the air.
Dust gathers in the corners,
settles on the bloody carpet.
No one bothers to
Decayed wooden furniture,
dead tables and chairs
devoured by termites,
drips from the roof
onto the wet marble floor.
of gods and goddesses,
of folks and cities
hang on the walls
by rusty nails,
smelling of nostalgia
filled with china,
with cracks in the middle.
Dirty clothes in the cupboard.
No space for new ones.
like broken vases.
by glue and tape.
People who live here,
have lived here
So different from
So, so different.
from old, musty newspapers,
in a cheap collage.
Like seven different songs,
playing all at once.
Like all the colours of a prism
mixed together to form a
pale, blurry white.
they smile at me,
I smile at them.
People I call family.
strangers I call friends.
A broken house I call
Don’t make these dark places your home.
Stars swim and drown
in the midnight depths of your eyes.
I drag that sky like the ocean, searching to find.
But you’re lost beneath a shivering tide.
Stranded inside a shape of flesh and vice.
And like the ocean, it’s so deep.
Surrender soon gives way to sleep.
But haunted and tangled are my dreams.
Because your best interest I failed to keep.
This haunted is so ill-defined;
a malady of the mind
you catch in the corners of your eye,
plagued to relive the nightmares till you die.
Centripetal strain condemns living to repeat.
Dead on our feet, solace is our sleep.
But sleep is breached, and there comes a shriek
rising hot behind the prison of gritted teeth.
These broken hands oft fail to reach.
No more can pretense mar my speech.
My fault wrought everything you are.
Every wound, every scar. Sinking softly into self,
eternities from my touch. Near but so far.
And my mind itches to kill the life support.
But murder is too heavy a weight.
So I leave you to fight your incorporeal
civil war, and soldier on despite your hate.
The tide is black now, a gentle decay.
Long to scream it all away.
But vocal cords break and mute you’re left,
with darkness cold to paint your breath.
An empty shell, victim to theft.
With a heart the color of slow death.
And starving strides and deepening clefts.
Perhaps more room to fit inside.
But shallow is this fallow pain,
a gallow walk of weary strain.
Pulls you soft unto the earth,
craving now a steeled rebirth
to bring you home again.
The prism spins in dizzied time.
Killing self with words sublime.
Hands pressed hard to the surface,
suspended in the murky
waters of your own mind.
My lullaby you fail to hear.
Pleas for freedom miss your ear.
Bleeding and spangled you hang your head
from the other side of the mirror.
Home, sweet home
I lost my home the day she died.
I now wake up everyday to an empty bed, an unbearably still day, a life that has paused. After 45 years of loving and living with me, was it fair to shift homes now?
What happens to the garden she had nurtured with so much love? Will it wilt and dry up, waiting for her, as I do?
What about our plans to clean out the attic? Will the clutter die with the house, forever uncleared? (Yeah, we were a bit lazy there…)
Will the study remain unpapered? Such plans we had, the number of wallpapers we sifted through, the final selection, now lying unclaimed at the store.
I’ve decided - best to shift homes, or rather houses. Home no longer exists, only a shell with the soul gone.
Better to start afresh in a new house, a smaller one perhaps, far away from the memories of the only home I have ever known.
And yet, can I really leave behind the memories? The scent of her which pervades the very walls. The sweet humming that I can still hear in my weaker moments.
All the years that went into building my home, they are here - in my heart, in my head.
Home still exists - here - if I will let it. Accept that she’s gone but has left behind a wealth of a lifetime, enshrined in what I still call my home.
She loved her bicycle. The rusty pink exterior. The thick rubber tires. The basket, woven with daisies from three summers ago, the summer of her first love. It was her purpose, her set of brilliant angel wings. With every push of the petal she flew higher, up up and away.
It was dark and misting, the droplets settling on her skin. She knew those two factors were a dangerous combination, but she lived for danger. There was a thrill to taking a risk, especially one in disguise.
And it was so beautiful. Quiet. Away from the screams.
More shouldn'ts. She shouldn't have been biking in the middle of the road, against the ghost that the flow of traffic had left. She shouldn't have been looking at the stars, bright and twinkling, because she didn't see the headlights, bright and not-so-twinkly.
As she slammed against the car's front, blunt force rattling her organs, her last thought was bittersweet, sad with a hint of a smile.
She wouldn't be coming home.
House vs. Home
A house is a building, it’s as simple as that.
it has bedrooms, bathroooms, and kitchen.
You may live there, sleep there, eat there.
But are you at home there?
A home is “Come on in, we have food.”
It’s where you go when you don’t know what to do.
There you are safe, there you are loved.
somtimes a home is your house, and sometimes it’s not.
A home can be loud, a home can be quiet.
a safe place to hide from all the riots.
At home you can laugh, cry, say hello and goodbye.
Home can clean, messy, or somewhere in between.
Home is where you can talk, and people aren’t mean.
Home is dog hair all over the floor,
and people coming through the door.
Home is where you can dress down,
Home is where you can act like a clown.
Home is where you can be yourself,
Be like you would in front of nobody else.
Home is for family dinner,
or watching the game to see who is the winner.
Home is for making popcorn with freinds,
Having fun long after the day ends.
For a house can be a home,
where you call your freinds on a phone.
But it’s not the house.
It’s not the dog, beds, stairs, or couch.
It’s the people you are with day-to-day.
The ones who make you want to run and play.
A house is a building as simple as that.
But it can more, oh so much more than that.
Nobody has a home
Miss. Grim would always tell us
What even is a home?
Is it like this one?
There are so many bunk beds that I get confused
Does a home have so many faces?
How do you remember who is who?
And do homes have smelly kids too?
How about stuffed animal guts?
Are they all over the floors too?
Miss. Grim, do you have a home?
Or is this your home too?
Yes Charlie, although my home is different
You see Charlie, my home and your home are different things
Do you like your home, Charlie?
I don't know what a home is, but I do like my friends
Can you show me your home, Miss. Grim?
Is it big?
Oh, and do you also have smelly children living in it?
Caharlie, maybe you should go play with Your friends for a while...
Miss. Grim has some grim things to do.
A Parent’s Love
Multicolored light reflections pulsated on Sam’s windshield. Orange and yellow from the cityscape. Blue and red from the police. Sirens blared and the police yelled for her to pull over, but Sam turned up the electronic beat from the speaker. Tears flowed freely from her eyes. She had to make a choice: keep driving and escape to a life of luxury. Or return home to see her son and daughter for a final time. If she did that, the cops would arrest her shortly after.
She thought, screw it.
She turned left and floored the gas pedal in her car. Sam was headed to her paradise.