When I die
I want a pigeon on my gravestone
Why?
Because that's what it is
How I will be remembered
People will walk past me not caring
Unless I'm specific, I won't matter
They will trot past not noticing my name
Maybe I'll steal a quick glance
And maybe children will stare in wonder
Maybe someone will look and genuinely care
Or maybe not  
I am like a pigeon in life and death
People just don't care
I'm just something to inhabit the background
Something that could be great but probably never will be
I spare thoughts for pigeons
But who would care about that creepy boy that sits and talks to birds?

Do you ever get those days? When the only thought running through your mind is 'I want to go home'
But you are home. You are in your bed with lungs that don't feel like yours and a pulse that sounds more like a drum and you can't hear anything but your own intrusive thoughts and you want to go home. To a skin that doesn't feel like a strangers and to a heartbeat that doesn't sound like his or hers or theirs and you can't, you can't, you can't just simply 'Go Home.'

It's hard not to
fall in love
with someone

when
they see the
mixed up parts of your
soul.

When
they understand
the darkest and
dustiest
corners of your mind.

When
it's four a.m.
and they call
because
they know you're
not
asleep

I have no idea what home is for me anymore.

It's not the third house this year, with new housemates and a pile of bad memories on the shelves. I don't care about the twentyfive pairs of heels in my closet. I never feel content with travelling home.

It's not my mothers place, not since years. There's a mixture of scents in the air there. Fights and anxiety, depressions and stubborness. But I still come there all the time.

It's not even the place where we go camping, though the rocks feel like freedom and I feel far away from all *******.

I used to think it was in somebody else's arms, but I can no longer believe such.

it's the kind of crush
where your heart leaps out of your chest
with marionette strings
attached to the rest of your body
and it pulls you tumbling behind
your head screams no
and yes
and no
until you don't even know how you feel anymore
it's marionette strings
on my heart
and they win

It's all the same girl
with 20 different faces
it's an actress
a girl lost in her world
and in her mind
she skips through the days on dainty toes
with no place to go but home

As we walk,
The grass bends beneath our feet,
The stars whisper secrets we do not understand,
And the wind beckons us towards something.

What is it? We don't know, but keep walking south.

South toward good days with plenty, in a pursuit of peaceful nights, with good men, and fulfilled dreams.

We walk this desert in hope of escaping this conflict we were born into,
in order to find rebirth through those coming after us and from us.

So we walk.

Walking against the grains of sand, looking for better days, with better way.

Such is the nature of our journey.

We swim in a sea of uncertainty, praying not to drown.

Capturing every moment so that it will not be forgotten, so our story can one day be told.

We appreciate cuts and bruises along our way so that even when we grow old they will tell of our journey.

I turn towards my wife who carries our unborn child, and I tell her, "We will name her 'our hope'."

And she will know how we gave up our discomfort for her sake, how her presence brought us a state of determination and stubbornness.

How she gave us hope.

When she is young she will see our well worn feet disfigured by distance and hellish conditions.

She will ask in astonishment, "What, happened?"

And we will tell her of our journey.

But she will see but not understand that we carry the weight of the past in our feet.

That our walk is still heavy and are days are always long.

Yet eventually she will see Him through our suffering, because even though our trials are not as great, our feet are like his hands and feet, they are an image of sacrifice.