Poetic Justice

Uncalled for dwellings

You see, this room that I sit in,
This window that I stare at,
The door that I close behind me,
And the floor that I tread,
None of it is truly mine.

It's a house,
That I return to,
A shelter I refer to,
But at the end of the day,
It will be only a house.

There is a difference between a house
And a home,
I'm sure you heard that many times
Before.

Some say a home is a place,
Somewhere in solitude where you
Sit,
Close to a blazing fire,
As you stare out a window,
That is filled with pure white snow,
On it's wooden trimmings.

Some say a home is a person,
Someone who can hold you,
And will never let you go.
The person your heart belongs to,
The person that will take away all
Your scars,
By only a simple touch.

In my opinion,
My home is a land of words.
It is found between the lines,
Of my verses and poetry.
It sparkles uncontrollably,
Like when fire comes alive.
As the ink in my pen,
Reunites with the blank on my paper.

It lies in the delicate words I form,
And perhaps the land that I created.
It may not be real to you,
But you know not the feeling,
As adrenaline rushes through my
Veins,
When I come face to face,
With those perfectly imperfect,
Structured lines.

People say that home is somewhere
You go to,
At the end of the day,
It is where your true heart's desire
Lies,
It is somewhere where your flaws
Are not measured against you,
It where everything is true, There are
No need for worthless
Lies.

And when I tread my fingerprints,
On the ground of my home,
I feel that I need not explain myself,
For why I need to feel.
No one is clinging on to every word
I say,
To only find another flaw.

When the world is filled with such
Disinterest,
When no one seems to listen,
No matter how much I plead,
When all is more important than me,

That is when I go home,
I leave my house behind,
And I go home,
Back to a paper that needs to listen,
A paper that would be nothing,
Without the delicate strokes of my
Words.
A pen that needs to be moved,
By my usually,
Unwanted and unlistened to words.

People say that it is odd,
That I feel the need to go home,
But then again,
These people are the same people,
Who refuse to listen.
The reason that I have created my
Own cosy home,
A home they're not invited to.

My fireplace,
The warmth in my home,
Is the heat of the pen between my
Fingers,
When I've written for ages without
Stopping.

The windows in my home,
Are the commas on my paper,
That need to see more,
Before they are completed,
The distance between one phrase,
And another,
The distance between outside and
Inside.

The door to my home,
Are the full stops my words contain.
Just like a door,
It is either the start of something new, The entrance into my home,
Or the end of something great,
The exit of my home.

See,
We all have different homes,
In these homes our decorations do
Not matter,
But in these homes our hearts are all
That do.

These beautiful places,
That wouldn't exist,
If only our houses were as welcoming
As our homes.
These beautiful,
Uncalled for dwellings.

~n.s

(A/n: I just went home for a second now :). I love writing, like sooooo much guys!!! Please, if you guys don't mind, my home would really appreciate it if you could press on the little star at the bottom, right there: /
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You see it now don't you? Of course you do! That yellow star at the bottom, yes!!! That's the one! Now press it!!! Yayy, thanks so much! ;)
Xoxo,
Nikita)