When I was a kid, I thought that a home and a house had the same meaning. Your family is your home, because you all live in the same house. But, how wrong was I.
The meaning of the two was different, entirely different. A home, it could be a group of people, a place, something that could make you feel welcomed and warm.
Eleutheromania, I long and yearn for a home, it could be anything. I am pleading, running, and walking, all sorts of things that I am able to do just to find a home.
Home, home, oh, home, where are you? I have been searching for you earnestly. Why won't you appear before me? I have to find a home—no, I need to find a home: a place where I could be accepted without any held backs, without any dirty glances.
I knew, that I was dirty. My body was full of bruises from people who took advantage of my kindness. My hands, they are calloused, for I had to build up walls that would protect me from these people. These people who only know how to do wicked things to others, to me.
My fingers tremble at the sight of my home being far away to reach. I know it's there, I know someone and something's going to take me home, make me at home.
Pristine tears then cascaded down through my face, the salty taste of my tears reminds me of how I pushed everyone away. Maybe that's why no one wanted me to be part of their home, for I was afraid to open myself.
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Bleeding On Paper: English Pieces (original)
PoesieA collection of English poems and proses written to speak and knock to each readers' hearts and minds. This is how an author let her blood flow through the use of words, by expressing oneself. (Updates every time I write a new piece) AHZEE 2k24 ALL...
