“Home”

There’s a tattoo on my wrist

with words that speak of “home”

It describes not a place where dinner awaits,

Nor a voice on the end of the phone

there’s no holiday feast,

no family who gathers,

If so, I’m just not invited

There couldn’t be room for a child to no one,

a black sheep whom judgment indicted

A lifetime ago with a seat to my name, but It wasn’t I (who was wanted)

only what I had

So, when that didn’t last

I lost value, that’s what they decided.

There’s a tattoo on my wrist with words that speak of “home”

Just not in the way that you’d think

“Home”

Delightful little platitudes,

which reside deep inside attitude,

I have mine written in ink.

To force me to see what I sometimes forget

This practice in permanence has helped avoid much regret.

Everyone’s heard the saying, “home is where the heart is”

If that were the case,

I’d have to embrace how “home” can often be parted

That:

Home is a prison in Texas

Home, is a house of cards I won’t name

Home is a little place in California,

a loving Paradise, free from pain

But I was born a rebel

and I reject all your clichés

A daughter of my loving mother,

Earth it is her name

They say never forget where you came from,

I promise that I never will

It is written on me for life..

Home is place where the plants grow,

not a parent who says “Take your pills!”

There’s a tattoo on my wrist

with words that speak of “home”

It reads: “Home is where the plants grow..”

And that is all I know.