Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Moonchild Mar 12
My heart sought a home, even when I was in one,
I moved here almost 9 years ago, I gave it my best,
To settle, to adapt, to overcome, to thrive even,
Instead I corroded, I mangled, I survived choiceless;

Through all your lush green and the rain,
I never found real comfort, just a respite,
I suppose I was stupid to expect it at all,
How does one find home in a war?

Nothing has changed, I don't expect it now,
I was just a city boy abandoned far away,
In an land, where I couldn't speak or relate to,
I'm supposed to belong here and I don't;

It's amazing how far I've placed my mind away,
I rarely live in that certain aspect of my existence,
I'm somewhere I don't belong and can't go back,
Where I used to belong no longer belongs to me;

I'm a nomad in a place I'll never understand,
I've grown accustomed to it's people and things,
The tailored familiarity often backfires into me,
I can't be in tune with them or them me,

I'm a child of the Earth, nameless and unbound,
Perhaps there is hope after all, I'm undefined,
Tried to fit in their boxes, gracefully broke all of it,
Maybe I don't fit in anywhere, the wildcard;

I do take great pride in that, it's a badge of quality,
The untamed among the tamed, blessed with chaos,
A mercurial maverick who desires rest and calm,
I'm only a person after all so I hope, I hope, I hope...
Zywa Jul 2023
I rake the ashes

of the olive stones and I --

smell my homesickness.
Novel "The PowerBook" (2000, Jeanette Winterson), chapter "spitalfields"

Collection "Inwardings"
Zywa Feb 2022
I didn't even live by a river
yet again I stare into the distance

at nothing, at the water
that cannot choose either

where it ends up
over which toxic grounds
and prickly expectations
diluted, frozen or eaten
by a thousand kilometers of sun

Black wings of homesickness
grow on my shoulders

but I know I'm covered
by the lion of my duties

to people like me
who once left somewhere
dreaming, to learn
that there is no way back
to their youth
"Le mal du pays" ("Homesickness", 1941, René Magritte)

Collection "Between where"
Tiana Feb 2022
February Morning!
How gracefully you in your nostalgic attire trigger memories
and this profound understanding;

The rushing energies before school
How I wish I could go back and take hold,
Of those hours of pure fantasies that wasn't disturbed
by the thought of my parents getting old;

February Morning!
Maybe your fragrance wouldn't have hit me so hard,
If I wasn't preparing towards a seemingly fresh start
in the lands of the lake poets;

And I now wonder,
Intimidated by your Swift withering,
how life has hypnotized me into singing
words of worth
for the synthetic and tangible shimmering;
I feel you've woken me up from an hazy conscious;

Next year,
If I'm to feel your caressing light again,
It mightn't be from my beauteous and evergreen nest;

Maybe you'll come in a different costume,
bearing a distinct scent
That I'll both adore and hate;

Maybe because
your wind will then carry a cold solitude
and I'll terribly miss my brother and our silly disputes;
while the chaotic kitchen clangs would seem so distant
comparing to the silent heaves of crocuses in outside gardens;

February Morning!
I know if I get to know you there,
My heavy hours in library won't stop me from reminiscing;

Nostalgia would strike me more violently
but this time
accompanying a yearning that'll pierce my heart silently;
Inspired by "the lakes" by Taylor Swift
Anais Vionet Dec 2021
Another college tour, another favor. This time it was an old schoolmate, George and his parents who were taking the official tour. I was going to babysit his little sister Mary (5) while they walked around.

It was good to see someone from home and sad in a way. For a moment, I had a tugging feeling, like there was a hook deep inside me and the reel was back home.

When I first saw George I remembered a time, in 10th grade, before COVID. I was leaving school early and waiting to be picked up. Twenty track boys, fresh from their daily run, were lounging, seductively around. George, in particular, in a pose rather like Michelangelo’s Adam. “***!” I remember thinking at the time.

I smiled at that long-ago tableau. “What?” George asked, he was watching me. “Nothing,” I smiled, “Just looking forward to babysitting”

Mary and I exercised to a video, had a pizza delivered and colored - crayons aren’t easy to find in the modern college environment so we used high-lighters to create delicate, watercolor-like masterpieces.

As we drew, Mary said, off-handedly, “You’re really nice,” as if the nature of my character had been in some dispute. Still, I still felt warmly complemented.

When the tour was over, we were walking up science hill toward their car and the sun was declining to sunset. “How do you like it,” George asked, confidentially, head lowered, voice low enough not to be overheard by his parents who were walking a few yards behind us with Mary. “There’s a LOT of reading,” I said, shruggingly. “but I’m keeping up.” Last year I was a junior, this year I’m in college. It seemed absurd.

How do you conjure a vision for someone of what college would be like, when college experiences are so individual? The writer's dilemma, interpreted by a babysitter.

As we reached their car, the caroling bells started ringing (5pm) from Harkness Tower.  It was the perfect send-off. Again I felt the pull of homesickness but my phone plinked and the emotion didn’t even last as long as dusk.
more u-life
Vincent Legrand Nov 2021
it’s not that i don’t want to go back
i don’t even know if my grounds are sound

i just don’t want to be the person to return
only when someone has died
Luna Insomnia Oct 2021
the homesick one looks up to ask
"please, when do we go back?
for tears will quickly do their task,
will carve another track"

the knowing one just turns and smiles,
explaining once again,
that back is so much more than miles,
that now has become then

the homesick one, though, doesn't hear
the answer, for the thousandth time,
she wants to turn a deafened ear
so may the truth well chime

the truth that home is far away
that there will be a thought of when,
until that longed-for summers day
when she is home again

that home forever grows
the knowing one reminds once more
as sure as anything she knows
it's right there in her core

yet homesick one still asks and calls
relentlessly for home
she feels imprisoned by the walls
she wishes she could roam

she begs and screams for unity
for just one little trace
of love, of that community
where she had found her place

the knowing ones exterior cracks
the smile cant further hold
the tears now finally run their tracks
and masks begin to fold

and suddenly they all burst out
my knowing, homesick tears
of longing and I almost shout
something to never reach their ears

I want to scream how this is wrong
that I feel empty without them
that where my love and joy will stem
is the home where I belong

I dont, of course, I never would
the knowing one reminds me soon
that home I know is just as good
and still I long for come next June
This is my way of wording the feelings I have about the summer camp, which is my home in many ways and which I miss desperately every year after coming home
Nicole Feb 2021
We did not leave
yet novelty stood out
As if we were strangers in this place
A certain loneliness bloomed
And silence grew from it

We did not leave
yet vacancies filled in
and it's suffocating
We became a village
of foreign gazes and nostalgia

I wanna go home
Can we go home?
daphne Nov 2020
fever burning in my mind
Which road leads me home?
i lost something I can not find
and forgot which way I came from

the crowded streets bleed out at night
and the rains cleans the mess in the morning
A wool is tied around my eyes
And the devil is singing his word of warning

on every other corner lives a fallen god
In others, are the monsters
Painting with blood on the ***** facade
Images of dread and wonder

a nightmare, laughters, faces in smoke
When I awoke my house was on fire
from under my bed, they laugh as I choke
And lay in place my funeral pyre

I got on that train because I thought I could leave
For a second, I lingered in the doorway
but escaping past tenses has ways to deceive
and I numbed out the signals of warning

The fever has burned a hole in my mind
And blurred out the vision of home
What is lost has been lost and I can not find
The direction that I came from
Quill Oct 2020
Oh how silly for a heart to yearn for a home that doesnt exist

For a chest to ache with the sickness that one only gets when they've traveled too far

For a soul to feel as though it were born in the wrong universe

For hands to tingle with idle magic at their fingertips

Until it overflows, onto a page, into a song, over pillows and sheets as tears cascade and stain and drown

Oh how tragic for Hiraeth to take hold
Hiraeth: a Welsh word for homesickness or nostalgia, an earnest longing or desire, or a sense of regret. The feeling of longing for a home that never was. A deep and irrational bond felt with a time, era, place or person
Next page