Anger like thunder
Tears like rain
Shaking the ground
I'm a hurricane
I try even breathing
I scream and I shout
As hard as I try
I can't let it out
Nothing lasts forever
Except pain and despair
You know and I know
That I'm a nightmare
Lover take shelter
Find safety in midst the storm
Because I'm made of hell fire
But at least I'm warm

"Home is where the heart is."
Gaius Plinius Secundus.

Around the time I turned 9 years old,
the word "home" became a puzzle.
Where was it?
Was I supposed to go and find it?
What did it even look like?

You see, I grew up in an unhealthy household
with few friends to surround myself with.
I grew up calling my house just that--
a house.

I searched for a safe place to rest my tired mind and heart
for longer than I can remember.
But on a seemingly dull November night,
where I was completely off guard,
completely unaware,
you walked into the room,
and suddenly,
I saw a porch light.
I was so scared to walk in because,
How was I supposed to know a home even looked like that?
Disheveled, almost ashy brown hair.
Eyes greener than the pines that
we've been surrounded by our whole lives,
a smile reminiscent of the sun itself.
A month later, I finally let myself in and
I feel as though I made the mistake of getting too cozy.
You see, the floorboards had chips and cracks,
The foundation had been growing weak.
I insisted on staying as the roof caved in.
I had to crawl out of the rubble,
alone,
and try to build some makeshift shelter of my own.
A shelter of empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts,
Crumpled up papers and broken pencils.

I was sure the light was out for good.
I was sure I was left to find another home,
or at least wander in the nothingness,
when I heard a slight knock.
A knock on the door,
and I went outside.
I was confused--
nobody was there.
No one was home.

I followed the knocking as it rang in my ears,
and came across a familiar,
unkempt shanty.

The porch light flickered as I approached.
You came back into my life,
and while all I wanted to do was step inside,
maneuver through the wreckage,
I stared.
I couldn't even look in those stain glass windows,
those rich, forest green eyes,
because I felt it.
As I stood beside you,
next to you,
I feared for my sanity knowing
you were still my home.

The conversations were almost as unstable
as the remaining scaffolding and stilts.
As the drops began to pattern my clothing,
you reached out, gave me your hand,
and pulled me inside.
You pulled me into your arms,
and I cried.
I cried because I was home again.
I couldn't tell you that.
I cried because I still love you,
and we simply cannot mingle.
We cannot use the old baseboards
of the places we've evacuated
to rebuild a home together;
I'm yet to find my heart.
I think I left it with you.

When I pulled away from your hold,
I felt lost.
I looked to your eyes without thinking,
and I saw every moment we spent together
as though it were today.

I saw the little country market where you
demanded I get out of the car,
because I was crying and you knew I needed
someone to hold, and you offered.
I saw the look in your eyes when you asked to kiss me,
because you knew that I'd been hurt so terribly before,
because you wanted me to feel safe enough
to fall into someone's arms again.
I saw our matching shoes on our first date,
the nerf guns you came running in with,
heard the playlist in the car as we laughed at
how young we felt, and how it contradicted our actual age.

I saw the box I had to put your things in.
I saw the screen of the phone reading 'call ended',
the last time I heard your voice.
I saw the treeline as I shouted at it,
cursing at the wind for reminding me of your touch,
for sending chills down my spine when
that was your job,
cursing the trees for being so lively,
so close to your eyes,
I cursed you for being everywhere I went.

Like a 'Vacancy" sign on my front door,
I felt as though I was evicted from my home,
and I cannot go back because
it's not safe.

I know it's not safe.
Not right now.
I know the foundation is weaker than ever.
I know there's not room for two.

Instead I lie in this bed,
thinking of you.

I'm lost.
I miss you.
I just want to go home.

this is my last attempt
at trying to write about you.

i am sorry
that we couldn’t come to a consensus
on how to deal with the damage of
our hearts
or how we left the remnants of our love
scattered across the road like
a drunken car crash
in action.

i just haven’t felt the same
after the tear
of a seatbelt around my neck,
around my chest,
holding me back from the
arms of destruction-
trying to push me to safety
away from anything
that we
were trying to be.

this is the last time
i try to justify it.

i need you to start learning
how to forget me.

Feeling things were never easy for me-
The ticking hands of the clock without you next to me
nudged my body into something I couldn't exactly stop.
My bones shake in your embrace and sometimes not in a good way.
My presence is something that has faded into your mind,
and my heart just a page on your drawing board,
always there to give you warmth,
whenever everything else seems bleak.
This is why I am no longer your fire pit.
I should not have to blaze for you to feel my heat.
I'm tired of getting burned by my own flames
because you fail to keep it consistent.

You shook me, figuratively of course.
But your words shattered what I once saw of you,
you had been the oxygen that kept me ablaze
until you completely blew me out.
Your words turned into a windstorm and I haven't been the same since.
I'm still trying to build the walls around myself
that once kept me alive and burning,
not letting anything close enough to touch me.
But time after time you remind me that wreckage can always be rebuilt-
but there's no promises all the progress you made rebuilding
won't come crashing down again and again and again
demanding refuge, demanding attention.
you are the wreckage in my bones,
and I can't seem to fix myself anymore.

I have a message
For you haters
You're the wreckage
Your words like razors

No longer shall I keel
To your decimating attitude
I have an intransigent zeal
Of undeniable magnitude

Your reign of terror
Now a speck in the past
Your puppet strings I sever
Now free I feel, at last

I dare you, I dare you
Try to cut me down
But be warned, I will strew
Your face all over the ground

No longer am i afraid.
All the hated, it's time to stand
All the haters, it's time to be repaid
No more worries, just grains of sand

The tides now change
Deny them their satisfaction
Their power has no range
Haters, this is your termination

I once heard that sadness gave birth
To the greatest of art.
But where is the beauty in cold doom
And darknesss?
The beauty between the lines, perhaps?
The possibility,
Of some cracked conclusion?
To end all delusions, with either mental upliftment or demise?
Upon heavy thought,
I channeled this pondering to be written, only to realize that this is the answer to the questionable beauty in sadness.
'Tis only beautiful when seen,
And 'tis only seen when shown,
And most of us are too scared to do so,
Other than to type our stories here.
This is where beauty in sadness is born. This is the art it creates.
So to all my fellow poets,
To my comrade lovers of prose,
Fret for as long as you need to.
Your beauty is seen,
Admired,
Appreciated.
But let it be known that,
On the flip side of your mind,
The world sparkles, glittering
For all of those who pull their hearts up from the wreckage
to see it.