Home. It's a noun. It's also an adjective, adverb, and verb. It is the place in which one's domestic affections are centered. A place in which The essence of childhood, innocence, and versatility Bloom like a spring annual.
But after the clock of those 18 years Runs out You are free to leave. In fact, you are encouraged To move to another Until you build a home for yourself.
Some never build another home They find decent company In one night stands And the nicotine tinged, cigarette burned sofas.
Some build a home better than the one they came. Gardenias, chrysanthemums, and marigolds in the garden; Scrubbing a crayon medium portrait Off the comic latte walls.
I have a distorted image of home. All these places I want to go and All these people I want to meet. I cannot settle Until I have shaken hands with the world itself But the argument still standing is Do I go alone?
I have never been good with loneliness And yet I crave the anonymity Of standing on the street, watching the cars rush by Knowing I am not bound by failure. I am not tethered down by my haunting past No definitions chained to my shoulders Forever slumping my chest.
No. I will meet many people and learn from them. I will tell people my name is different. Soon, I will be the wisp of stardust Hovering in the void Between here and there Changing, Yet staying absolutely the same.
I deem myself a traveler. Eventually meeting the civilizations That created my favorite words. Maybe in a few years at my high school reunion My old classmates will have kids to show their progress And I will have the words and wisdom from a thousand cultures And that will be enough, For travel is the soul of me.