Isn’t concrete,
It is not a flat near the hills,
It is not crowded with felines,
It is not filled old furniture and pictures,
Not with peeled off paint and overdue bills,
Dirty roads, old washed out plates and signs,
With aged staircase and corroded structures,
But it is home to me,
Is where I lay asleep,
In peace without worry,
Without a second thought of reality,
Where love is all around,
and all around is where I could find it,
Nothing to be seek, nothing to be found,
Indefinitely changing,
But home is where I could still see,
My mother’s smile,
My father’s voice,
My brother’s medals,
Even when they’re no longer around,
These memories, they stay,
And they’re stronger there,
In my home, it’s profound,
A place where I could lay at night crying,
Home for me,
Isn’t concrete,
It’s an idea of belonging,

Someone who writes a lot of poetry. Shit or not, they're mine. I'm also a lazy ass traveler. Stick and stone may break my bones, but staircases, they get me.
Posts created 51

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