I thought home was a construction
A state of mind
That could be built anywhere.
Anywhere that had a bed
and a sense of belonging.
I thought that'd be enough.

3 months later
3,000 miles away
I realized
Home isn't something that can be created
Home is something you have to find
Something you have to feel.

I feel most at home
with your touch.

Oh to journey to a far away place,
Never leaving the safety of my home.
The plot escalates, my heart starts to race.
When I read a book, my mind’s free to roam.

Oh to place myself in another’s shoes,
Like dueling a troll in an epic fight,
Or flying on a broomstick, if I choose.
I can view the world in a different light.

No matter the plot, or the length of the tale,
Finishing a book’s like losing a friend.
Even reading at the pace of a snail,
The best of stories still come to an end.

The narrative becomes a part of you.
It allows you to view the world anew.

Tempestuous pestilence of manic depressive tendencies invested in a message cocked and loaded as a centerpiece

           Unfold it, if you will,

   The beast lives in these pages
  While the people all went home to their own separate cages
Locks become phones that never ring
  No bars but still encasing, these cells are in our genes
   Its a prison of DNA strands unlocked with a paper key*
    Held firm by *words written within the world awaits to see

She knocks on his door in the pouring rain
Shaking her umbrella, muttering an expletive,
It's only half past ten but she knows he's inside
"Open up, you sonofabitch!"
A face glares through the red and white shutter
"You know he's dead, you old witch!"
"Just wanted to hear it one more time",
she walks away, cackling wildly

She stared right into those eyes
that she still saw galaxies in
and whispered
"I'm leaving you."

The poet sees the line,
Before it’s been read.
It has already been written,
Somewhere in his head.
An idea that settles,
To shape and to mould.
Something reused,
That is no longer old.
Repeatable rhyme,
Or overworked verse.
Through low timbre tones,
Let critics converse.
Discounting so many,
Is judgement a whim?
Tell me dear poet,
When did you begin?
In answer unknowing,
Thought, though not sure.
This is not the first time,
I have written before.
On deeper reflection,
All ages, all minds.
There is no criteria,
All patterns, all kinds.
So why do I bother?
I have need to say more.
I think, so I am,
And I am, so therefore.