Too often are we obsessed
with nesting,
making homes
out of other people
rather than ourselves
we make ourselves cozy
within the confines of the walls
they had to let down in order to welcome us in
we lace ourselves in between their fingers ,
hoping that we might also find ourselves
imbedded in their heart
we embrace the richness of their voice
as if it were a lullaby drowning out
the voice in our own heads
a person was never meant
to be made into a home
just trying to find their own way
in their uneasy bones
people are
fickle homes
with restless minds
and tired bones
i am learning to make a home
within myself
to clean the dust off of the blinds
that shield my eyes
and see the world a little clearer
it is time to clean out the attic of my mind
to paint my skin a different color
because I have always wanted my home
to be as colorful as i feel
i will explore the depths
of my own temple
and build in myself
a strong foundation
because the foolish man built
his house on the sand,
the foolish man also
made a home, out of a man.