My strength lies with them
the people who make me feel at home
we are not a club
we are a family.
We stand strong
hold each other up
protect our own .
We thrive on the happiness
we give each other.
We are one
like the song from The Lion King 2
we sang together today
right before double run through.
I love you guys
and I'll never stop.
Thank you so much
for being my family.
You noticed me today,
I hope you notice me every day for the rest of the week, for the rest of the month, for the rest of the year
You said my name today,
It was like a song, it was music to my ears and it became my favorite
A song was stuck in my head, on repeat
You talked to me today,
I can't help but clinch my hand every time you express every word with a smile and just makes me want to listen to you all day long
We held hands today,
I felt every rush inside my veins
And a combination of all hearts of hearts as one
Although, at the same rush, i felt every single emotion of anyone could have
I felt happy
I felt confused
I felt happy, mostly confused
I felt happy and a little bit more happy
Until i felt nothing, nothing but confused
Your hand interlocked with mine felt like home
It was warm, gentle and fragile
A home should be taken good care of;
I can run home to you every day for the rest of my life
But it wasn't my home
It wasn't a home for me -
There's no running to because there never was a home
I stand between being confused and happy
Of letting myself go or setting you free
You said you loved me today,
I stand with a pause and you added a phrase, you said
"But leaving her isn't easy"
"I'm not committed"!!!
Easy in saying... Deep in impact it leaves!
As a "Tribe" we raise... As a "Tribe" we Heal and Grow!
I don't belong anymore to "Tribe"!
Where do I belong then!
Where my soul will be straying around!
Where will be my home!
That is the quest!
Peace be upon you all!
From time to time your eyes weaken,
your face reddens, and body trembles.
And in those moments my soul is crushed,
the heart of this flower grows cold.
Despite your emotions, your actions, flaws,
I've never loved someone more.
But when you begin to shake,
my body aches, hoping this time that I can help.
You tell me to let you tremble, let you cry,
but what if your earthquake pulls down our house?
Despite my fears, my sadness, hopelessness,
I allow you to shudder and weep.
And when it is over, I go and test the grounds,
looking for damage to our home.
But you've assured me once and I'm starting to see
that your tremors do no harm.
And the aftershock is a stronger Love.
When my thoughts run away with me
And I don't know which way I should go
Once I receive the insignificance I so badly wanted
And all I want, is to be left alone
When every corner of my existence is thick with dust
Having flooded my mind, this temporary home
I find his words alive again, and I am reminded
That I must decide once more to go home
How does it feel?
A new feeling has taken over.
You've been reborn in a way,
feeling like you've left to a different city.
Did you do it? Did you succeed in
leaving your troubles back home?
Do you now have something you didn't?
A rhythm that you've never had before?
That "home" has always been a mindset
that kept me trapped in my own head.
It gets the best of us,
but I couldn't tell you how change is
even if my life depended on it.
I'll stay inside this shelter
built to mask my sinful life
but what you speak of,
it sounds like heaven on terrible earth.
I have to be the one to deliver the bad news,
I don't know a thing about that.
These different words talk of a beautiful change
but it's only really beautiful if it happens.
The outlook is bleak.
A piece of furniture–
wooden-framed or not
with a mattress
or mat long enough for a human of any size
with cloth coverings and a pillow.
Small or big, puffed or flat.
Quiet, empty, unmade, made
Yet this is where we are born,
where we pray,
where we lie,
where we love,
and where we die.
Where we begin our day and end it.
We may spend a third of our life here
in sleep, in tears, in joy.
Like with a lover, we hesitate to leave--
or like with a mother that promises cover from the world,
we cling to her skirts and breathe in linen
while she pads our dirty heads.
But like children, hesitant and weak we go
stumbling over our foal feet
and blink at the newborn light through the blinds.
Day is dawning.
The world continues to spin, and with it
day grows longer.
Spring promises to knock on my window
and wash me clean in the first rain.
Winter is gone and took her shadows.
The world alive outside calls me
But still I come running back,
to the feeling of softness, closeness, my mother’s hand
on my shoulder as she tucks me in
or you beside me, your arm around my waist
and voice in my ear.
So tell me, what is it
that brings us back
you to me,
me to home
to this piece of furniture?
To this bed.
I was a shirt filed with straw and rags.
Pants that hang loose. Jeans cuffed pinned uncomfortably.
Nothing to think of; a hat filled with straw.
The inability to walk. Pinned to a board.
Chest disproportionate to a small waist.
Sleeves flung in the wind.
Left standing still; a face motionless.
Pinned to hickory oak.
A shadow left in an empty field, the boundaries of a checkerboard shirt.
The insecurity of straw hands.
Pickett fences to the feet of crows,
Still she'd visit often.
Distance cut short by dark heavy wings.
She'd caw in my silence,
Not knowing the ability to smile I stood against purpose.
She refused to run, poking fun at my hat.
The clothes that hung loosely in the wind, scurf tied tightly around my neck.
Feeling her prick the strings of my chest.
Strands of straw filled by her need to find a home.
Was there anything there at all before that moment.
Becoming shelter to the way she pried.
Be lost in thought
As reading the novel…
Then take a sip his coffee…
Stumble again and again the words…
Then close the book and watch out free…
Come into view on
Vapour of the brown mug…
Regrets, unvoiced words
A couple of minutes
Can remind lots of things
What you labor to forget…
Rain cats and and dogs
Out of the window…
Though you just listen
Except sounds of fireplace…
There is huge of space
On the door
Except the thoughts…
And some vapour
Of the brown mug…
I was bothered by the idea of it
but dared not speak up —
I was afraid I'd upset my mother.
Her heart was set on moving back to her childhood home,
even if it meant giving up our one.
I thought about it a lot,
a date set two years in the future
but imminent all the same.
I thought about
no longer leaving a spare key
beneath the rusted bucket in the shed,
the porch wouldn't belong to us anymore
where the sun shines in, especially on a Sunday morning.
The attic no longer filled with our old castaway toys,
even when we try to explain that when we remember them,
they make us feel like kids again.
Whoever moves in here to this bungalow in the country,
the new inhabitants could never possibly know
of what went on inside these four walls,
and if these walls could talk
they'd say they miss us.
They saw two newly-weds raise a family
and the first time she got a letter addressed to Mrs.
There will be dust under the family portraits in the hall,
the pale yellow paint is dull under the photographs
of a wedding, a confirmation, a degree from UL,
a poster with our names on it advertising a musical,
boxed and packed away.
They must hang in another house, on another day.