i've got this new home now,
it's not really new
but it smells different.
and i'm sitting here in front my old home
like a smoke signal,
just a trail of grey,
trying to figure out when a home expands further than just a place to keep all my stuff.
my new home is where i'm living
so i guess that means my old home is where i died,
and i'm saying all of this
because i don't wanna say jumping off a bridge is easy,
to sink like a life raft
left out in the sun.
i don't wanna say that stealing a bunch of pills would be easy because it's too easy
to leave without saying goodbye.
you see,
people always say that you'll be missed
but if you've wanted to die for long enough
eventually
that loses its value,
cause it's too easy not to care, to just sink.
so i'm sitting here in my new home
and i don't know why i asked my phone how to get here,
maybe i just like it when something agrees with me,
and it doesn't feel like
the kind of home i used to know.
i feel like an actor in a poorly edited student film,
always looking directly into the camera,
like somehow the eye of the chaos will just dive out and grab me.
i don't really know what i mean by that
but i guess what i'm trying to say is;
home is where i have my most comfortable panic attacks,
it's a place that i never have to leave.
home is where i get to sleep,
and,
if I want to,
wake up.

bring out the ink, cover the page,
pools or creativity leak onto the desk.
you are incredible,
skill, abilities; boundless.
the sky's the limit and you’ve painted it with ten shades of blue.
brushes vary from size and shape,
pencils range in darkness and texture.
you create tones and shades,
different worlds, different beings present themselves;
bringing new things to existence,
making old things seem new.
you are an artist.
you create.
you, yourself, your art form,
a weapon.
skillful and sharp, utility.
along with your tools,
your training.
you too can become a weapon,
of mass creation.

-j.p.