Home.

A single word can fill you
With a thousand feelings
And memories.
Some are warm, happy,
Fuzzy feelings that you enjoy;
Others... not so much.
Yelling, pain, insults;
Dysfunction, blame, guilt.
But "family" is not always
The same thing as *home.**
Sometimes home is a person,
Who makes you feel loved.
They make you feel wanted
And secure in their embrace.
They give you those happy, fuzzy
Feelings and light thoughts
On your dark days.
And you, my friend...
You are home to me.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.