Poesie

Home

This is first of all, an answer to my friend, we were chatting and she replied something about where home is. Dedicated to the bestest gal in the whole world.

Sorry. I never really felt being at home. I felt prisoned, locked up, choking in the hands of the people who said they loved and cared for me.

I felt bruised when they didnt acknowledge me as their own, my pride was stolen long ago, I wasnt enough for the one I call home.

Home gave me the feeling of isolation, despair and no feeling of restitution. Home didnt meet his obligation, his objectives were obsolete and the feeling that came with it were agonizing. It was pitiful that my once a home became just a house, cracks on the window started appearing, the glass nearly shattered, the oak door was wrecked and looking up, the roof was pouring rain.

A conclusion was made up, he didnt want me there anymore, he once sheltered me, fed me, kept me warm, he became my blanket, a comfortable and safe place wherein I can be myself.

Now I see nothing but darkness, the cold and dreary atmosphere, the silence so deafening, it is a wasteland. The grass that grew green has wilted, turned into fields of brown shrubs. The wind has gone frozen, the scent of lavender was nowhere to be found.

So I left. I left home. I left this prison cell waiting to happen before it caged me and forced me to naturally die inside, because I was still longing for my home, because I know that home is where my heart is.

And my heart is within my home.

(I dont know what to do with this piece of work, so I thought of sharing it)