When you're so used to feeling broken,
Feeling whole again probably just feels like a different kind of broken.

When darkness and chaos become home, what used to be home seems to be so far from home that it may as well not exist.

But home is always waiting for you, regardless of where you go or where you've been.

Yes, it will take a lot of effort to get back. But it will be worth it. Just start the journey. You will stray from the path, but that doesn't mean you should give up.

Home can be a house, an idea, a pair of arms wrapped around you, or anything else. Home can take many faces, and, here's the kicker. A lot of times, home never leaves you. You just think it does.

That sense of belonging is there, just buried deep below the surface. Home goes where you go. Home is you, and you are always home.

Her love was mighty,
Great ocean after desert—
Little hands open.

He gave her his love,
Salt of her tears— shining gift,
Both heaven and earth.

Temple bells ringing  .  .  .
Flowers open to catch sounds,
  .  .  .  Joyous from the sun.

I belong to the world.
I belong to the beauty,
To the struggle,
To the joy,
To the wrenching grief,
To the heron,
To the sparrow,
The dweller and
The homeless.
The earth and
The wasteland.
The builder and
Destroyer.
The loved and
Unwanted.
I belong to all of it and
It is mine. For now.

Its hard to see the whole picture
When you're just a part of it -
One color, one piece, one shape
Of a cosmic artwork
Strewn with stars and emptiness
Ever expanding and eternally mystifying

I often fall into this trap.
This trap of seeing things that other people have and thinking I should have those things too.
The trap of inadequacy as opportunities seem to bypass me.
I sink into this pitfall of perceptions that scream to me how I should look, behave, what I should have, and how I should BE.
All of it being mostly lies and at best misconceptions.
I had to learn to accept acceptance,
That I am who I am meant to be.
Outside influence no longer clouds my thought, and I begin to enjoy life as I step out of a place between being too critical of the past, and too engrossed in the future.
The fact that I am here is evidence enough that there is a place and a purpose to my destiny.
I am here because this is where I belong.

when I sit in bed listening to the sounds of the city outside my window
I feel like I owe it a poem, creativity, something beautiful
to eternalize it's beauty in someway
the sounds of cars speeding through the bridge at 3:34am
souls repelled and pulled by the never-ending enigma that is the city
the heels of woman clacking across the cement, finding their ways home
the white noise in the rare moment that silence invades
this all silently screams to me, "paint me like a French girl"
I'm a muse, waiting to be picked upon
and nothing will ever be good enough

Someone stole your ****** and now you're feeling under.
Debriefed but not on how to deal with this outfit.
What to do? go out? fit in? Irked but no shoes or shirt.
Took it off of your back and replaced it
with a lack of faith in what this place is all about.

So you hung up your ***** laundry for all to see and they took it.
No mystery just misery. To the wanderer who said "if home is where the heart is, than I'm cynically homeless" unaware that if home is where the heart is YOU are always home.

They may have taken the shirt off his back but he would have given it gladly, cause that's not the sort of belonging he longs for. Wasn't quite his idea of clothing the homeless, but its done nonetheless.

But you got your head, shoulders, knees and toes so who needs clothes? When you're transparent. To the one who feels alone, take comfort in the fact that someone's now literally walking in your shoes...  and socks ...  and shirt.

Solitary days still leaving him contemplating underwhere? And underwhy? But what's garment to be will be and he'll be alright because his light shines bright, even if he doesn't see it in the glare. There's something fresh in the air. It's a mean feat, but once he learns to stand on his own two, in the space of a haunted Manor will stand a Man. One that can, will and do.

I almost don’t like relating to other people.

Because that means they have the same thoughts I do.
If I’m so different, how can that be?

But maybe I’m not different.
I’m not different at all.

If I’m not different and I don’t think or feel differently,
then what is this terrible feeling that I don’t belong?