" H O M E "
I have long been chasing after
Both the raindrops and the wonders,
I have been wanting to get through
The pavements and streets blocking you
If only I could write anthologies and poetries,
The ones that ink and stain your heart when you read,
Then kindly flip the pages
As they mirror your smile and your pupil and your iris
Before I flew and wandered around to get to know you,
Never have I ever thought that love could be this true;
You're a combination of rainbows and tidal waves,
A typhoon in a thirty-three degrees' summer's day
Loving you is a dusty pace and every corner's mess
That I tried to clean up until I got tired and got some rest,
I brushed the walls— the think ones that you had built,
I furnished what should be furnished but you never helped
I was so messed up and my heart grew weary,
As I kept on helping you but you never did see—
That I'm a New York of busy streets,
Of lonely lampposts,
And road signs,
And traffic lights,
And you're—
Well,
The buses and the taxis and all the strangers
That made me an abode, a home for ages—
Or did you really?
Or was I only,
A tent instead of a house?
An apartment instead of a permanent residence?
A rental instead of a 'bought'?
Or maybe,
I was,
Never your shelter at all?
photo credits: Google
YOU ARE READING
what's left is ink
Poetry"a collection of love that turned to inks and of heartbreaks that turned to burning poems"
