Breana

On the journey home to myself...

I write poetry.

I ask myself,

how many times have I wrote poetry on the brink of sanity?

How many times have I written paragraphs to people when I felt like they should have loved me?

When should I be loved?

What is love?

I think on the journey home.

What is the difference between being alive and just living?

We chose our names before we ever take our first breaths.

I think about my name.

I try to Define what’s hard about it.

How can I cultivate its strength?

It is the biggest burden to bear.

Every day trying to coexist with negative and positive thoughts.

Old feelings of being a bad mother, bad lover, and bad friend keeps me looking for the answers.

Possibly,

I’ve been thinking about this wrong.

I walk on my journey home.

That way

physical exhaustion keeps me feeling alive.

That is where I’ll make a house a home again.

On my journey home,

I realized that I don’t want that.

I stop and sit against a tree.

For the first time I look around and look back at the direction I've walked from.

The scenery is different.

The air cool.

It scares me.

I look up towards the sky and see the massiveness of the trees.

They dance with no wind

They sing with no words

They speak without voices

"We are the oldest form of wisdom

seek refuge when you must,

wisdom when you want it, and peace when need it."

I meld into the trunk of the tree.

I keep questions on repeat and ask the trees for their advice.

I keep asking what do I do?

What is it that keeps me on the path in front of me?

They say,

We do not move and carry our loads on our backs.

We don’t walk to find ourselves.

We do not think about the question of what makes us whole.

We are home.

Our wisdom comes from weathering the storms.

We dig our roots deeper

grow taller and stronger as the years go on.

We are home all on our own.