I don't think I'll ever find home.
Yes, I live in a house,
I have a roof over my head,
I have food,
I have a life,
And I have had some happiness.
But I don't think I have my own home.
I took my time,
Digging out my own grave,
For the end of my path.
But that grave,
And my life right now,
Neither are my home.
What I want these days,
Is just a home.
A place I come back to,
A place I am happy,
A place I am comfortable,
A place I can be myself in,
A place I will love.
I just want my home.
I've lived in the same house all my life,
Unlike my most people my age,
Who have moved from town to town,
Who have moved from city to city,
Some who even moved between countries.
But this house,
I don't know if this mediocre,
Incomplete house,
Is my home.
As I spill my thoughts,
Down into text,
Rather than onto the shoulders of others,
I realise,
Maybe my real life isn't my home,
But my created worlds,
And my written, confused words,
Is where my home is these days.
I'm a lonely girl,
Just looking for her home,
In a lonely world.
Where will I find my home?
My true, real life home?
YOU ARE READING
Just A Mess
PoetryI'm not too sure as to what this is, but I often get bored and lost in my thoughts, so why not write them out? As I wrote I created poetic sentences, lines and phrases. So, I hope they can be enjoyed despite their mainly heavy topics. This book cove...
