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What it means to have a home and what it means to not.

By Meagan DionPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 1 min read
Photo by Julian Hochgesang on Unsplash

Home was

where the corn grew

I sword fought my brother

climbed the weeping willow

swam in cool lake water

the very best view

at sunset.

Home is


when your mother's grave

is not.

Home never

was 37 B

I slept there once

a few years or more

only ever where the addicts would go

to ask "is Nicki here?"

Where a man was shot dead

50 yards from my window.

Where I barricaded the door

with my dishwasher.

It was only where I dreamed

of home.

Home became

more than just a place

to put my head

it was a hope

where trees shed their leaves

37 B was

a ledge

I could leap from it

or fall.

I almost did

almost wasn't

But just waited instead

for just a few more



Home is

where my feet touch

dirt roads

My children chase

snakes and frogs

The trees shed their leaves

in the fall

More than just a place

of peace.

sad poetry

About the Creator

Meagan Dion

My life is a little crazy. Four kids, homeschool, hotel clerk, write, create and coffee. Coffee is a verb. Do you coffee? I aspire to blow glass and finish / publish my novel. I would like to have an impact. Also, coffee.

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