I can't get over you*
      But I hate you.
  You hardly come around.
I used to date you when your time frame was more abrupt
    You'd show up with a kiss and a hug
  Give me the gift of love
With no glove on, just pure touch
      Pushing your button and gripping you tight
   We used to get by
You'd always take me back
  For the very last time
Stuck between whether it's wrong or its right
     Being this naked
We'd always fight and when it was amazing, even they loved it.
       From cover to cover, our bed was made up and it read like this:
      "Here lies Poetry and her Poet, God rest their souls on crumpled paper"*
      If we make it
And our love is a mainstream instrumental, will you come back and talk to me or will you choke me on your lies,
All your promises meeting their demise in a pair of telling deceitful eyes that I couldn't draw
    The paper might rip in these hands made of straw
      But the years will drag on with me gripping two halves beyond repair trying to grasp the reality of your infidelity

Always know there’s room to grow
And God will walk with you, through every storm.
Through seas of turbulence and deserts dry.
He’s your constant, when everything’s changing.
He’s the rock that can never be shaken.

There is something about the sun
It's warmth, its light, its age
Always rises, always sets
Is always somewhere to be seen, near and afar
The way it lights the path to where one is to go
Sunsets touching the hearts of those both young and old
Warming the skin on a hot summer day
Sometimes hiding, sometimes blinding
But remaining constant in this crazy life

Always right with me, behind my back,
The enslaved don't have hope,
I go, I read, but it stuck with my skin, with me,
The shadow ransacks behind, a nervous contour.

Always to us days conceal a pressure,
There is no ease of space on rising,
The invisible soldier squeezes hoops,
The security guard constant in a campaign.

Steel locks without knowing a tightness,
We live, we slide, meeting on the road,
But shadows..., shadows in a trace thoughtfully look,
Without us they aren't present, without us they a trifle, - dust on soles,
That stuck on a threshold.

"Be rich, or die, trying to become," -
The line in number Ferrari is punched,
The shadow can do everything, doesn't dare to fly only..., -
To the earth an iron chain chained.

I feel the waves crashing into my spine
knocking the wind out of me
again
and again
and again.
I can't keep my head above water
but the tide never stops
(I fear that soon my heart will).
I reach for your hand to pull me out
but it seems you just push me deeper.
Choking on the salt rushing down my throat.
My lungs are bursting,
won't you throw me a line?

Our inconstant friendship is the product of our inability to be constant lovers.

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.