A Home in The Darkness

Home.

A word that I've been dancing with, forever and a time.

Is it the places that I've lived? Is it the kin that I've called mine?

Is it the love I feel around me or the light that fills me up?

Is home a home-cooked meal, served with fluid in a cup?

If home is a sense of belonging, I'm afraid it's escaped my grasp.

The word home is a puzzle, a challenge, to pursuit of it's solving I clasp.

The concept feels outside my purview, it seems to me I cannot know,

The feeling of knowing what Home is, until I can step back and let go.

I do so.

I step back.

I think.

I ponder.

I wonder.

And then...

I see.

Home isn't light, life, nor love.

It isn't the places I've lived.

It isn't the people around me,

and it's not the support that they give.

Nay.

Home is my chest's rising tension, the rate of my heartbeat up high.

Home is the pain and the darkness, that I see in the mirror in my eyes.

It's the things I regret and the choices I've made that if I could go back I would change.

It's the memories of traumas long past, of abuses quite wholly deranged.

It's the burdens that weigh on my heart and my soul.

It's the struggle that makes me feel caged.

It's the stress strain and heartache that puts me at risk, and makes me feel withered and aged.

Home is the hate and the rage of the world. The darkness that urges me on.

Without all my pain I am nothing, I'd wake empty each morning at dawn.

For I must say I thrive feeling desperate, exhaustion to me is a fuel.

Home is the worst of the worst in my life...

I'd be lost if the world weren't cruel.