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They say home is where the heart is.  
How poetic. How sweet.  
How utterly useless when you wake up in a bed that smells like someone else’s city,  
when the walls don’t know your voice,  
when the streets spit out syllables that trip your tongue.  

Tell me—does this look like home to you?  
A place where I walk like a stranger in my own shoes,  
where my laughter is softer, measured,  
where even my silence doesn’t sound quite right?  
I sit in a room filled with my own things,  
but they feel stolen, out of place,  
as if I’ve broken into a life that wasn’t meant for me.  

They smile at me, they nod, they talk.  
So kind. So welcoming.  
So oblivious to the weight I carry  
when I pretend that their way of life is now mine.  
Like it’s just that easy.  
Like you can simply unzip yourself from the past  
and slide into a new skin without bleeding.  

Back home—  
(ha, “home,” like it’s still mine to claim)  
the air was warmer,  
the sky softer,  
the ground held me like I belonged.  
Here, I am tolerated.  
Accepted, even.  
But belonging?  
That’s a different kind of luxury.  

So I go through the motions.  
I drink their coffee. I learn their roads.  
I adjust my mouth to their words,  
wear them like second-hand clothes,  
a little tight, a little loose, never quite fitting.  
And I tell myself, maybe one day,  
this place will stop feeling borrowed.  

Maybe one day, I’ll wake up  
and the walls will know my name.  

But not today.  
Not yet.  
Maybe never.
Why are we different?
Because you are a brittle block of rotting wood,
And I am an immortal diamond within obsidian sand.
When angered, you will raise your hand,
But don't you dare raise it to me,
For I will stand like statue, your blow caught in my palm.
Tis true
You know that I love you,
but I wish I could live you.

Experience the world like you do.

To touch it, with your delicate fingers.
To see it through your eyes so blue.

How different would our love feel
if I could live that love as you.

To feel our passionate kisses 
through your soft and tender lips.
Or the feel of what it feels like.
when you do that thing-
You know.
the one that makes me flip!

Yes Baby I wish that I could live you,
if only for a moment or two.

So I could feel your love for me,
the way I feel my love for you.
So I text my baby "I Love You" earlier and her response came back
"I live You too." an obvious typo but it inspired this poem.
I hope you like it.
checkout the video
https://youtu.be/NZdSwo2UKLY?feature=shared
or
www.youtube.com/@tsummerspoetry
B Mar 1
I cannot reach the fruit on the tall tree in the woods
And all the men next to me are always telling me
C'mon man, just reach up high and grab one
C'mon man, the fruit tastes so very delicious
C'mon man, every real man here can, go on
C'mon man, you can't be that small, grab one like the rest of us

Well I am
And I cannot reach the fruit they can
So I will walk further in the forest
To find a tree small enough for me

And I see
Another boy like me
Picking the fruit of the small tree
And I will say
C'mon man, let us eat the fruit together
Because surly
The tall tree is not meant for us boys.
Laokos Feb 23
I’ve got this wild hair,
and it’s a real humdinger.
goes everywhere with me,
whispering, shouting,
whatever the hell it wants:

“dance in the fire.”
“go talk to her.”
“drive straight into that lake.”
“what’ve you got to lose?”
“**** it.”
“jump.”

it’s gnarly, tangled,
never stays down,
a rebellious little ****.

some of my best mistakes
have come from it, too:

“one more,
come on.
what’s the worst that could happen?”

“**** the trail,
it’ll take too long.
just run down the side
of the mountain.”

“ok, sure—
let’s pack up
and move across the country again.”

everyone’s got one,
standing tall somewhere,
poking out like a flag
on a battlefield of sameness,
a single, defiant kite
riding the sky
above the canopy.

those wild ones,
they’re the beauties.
the rogue strands
growing their own way
when everything else
marches in a straight line.

I love those wild hairs.
the ones that scream
against the comb,
flip off the barber,
and refuse to lay flat.

the ones that urge us
deeper into the unknown,
to take chances—
to risk ourselves despite everything.

the funny thing is,
I think
God had one, too—

when He made us.
Maria Feb 22
We’re different, you and me, we’re different
As if we’re made in different worlds indeed,
As if we’re fed on different dew furthermore,
As if we’re covered by different felt on creed.

We’re strange, you and me, we’re strange.
We should go away in all directions, in whole,
Not to be for all, not to touch each other,
To be walled-up behind different walls at all.

We’re crazy, you and me, we’re crazy.
We’ve tried to run away both so often.
But our fate has marked us with a “cancel” sign
And simply decided not let us go, just no one.

We’re different, you and me, we’re different
As if bitter frost and caressing spring in other way.
We have different palettes, you and me, different palettes.
But the canvas is one, one for two of us, anyway.

And we have to paint our further life by the will of fate,
In four hands on one canvas therefore.
You know, I don’t like to paint and I’m not good at it.
I’ll better hold the palettes for you evermore.
Sudzedrebel Feb 15
And so should the strongest
Make love to the link worn delicate?
In that communion,
As one to another companion,
We seal the cracks & breaks
That have started to leak.
We bind what made us weak.
We champion truth
And honor accuracy;
Don your hood,
But don't go robbing.
Love passionately, but love gently.
Do so with forthright honesty,
Do not play at it or fake it
Lest you forsake it.
From what seems as less than
We shall reveal the hidden,
As a marvelous miracle unwinding.
It's all perspective,
For though I think them no greater
They are more than certainly my equals.
I would live for them as I would die for them,
One & all.
Couldn't get past heavy water,
Here's one for the feudal fascists.
I probably need to spell it out for you,
D.N.***
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