The Fantasy of "Home"
No white picket fences here.
It’s nothing so cliché as the place my heart lives.
Nothing so secure as the place my soul feels safe.
I never allow myself the false hope of kind words being said,
Nor do I give into wild expectations of an actual bed.
For me, home is simply the place I lay my head.
From simple houses to fleabag motels,
And forfeit cars to fancy roadside rest areas.
I’ve made camp in them all, never expecting a forever home.
I’ve always longed for the place to call my own,
Always dreamed of that place I feel safe and warm.
Still, the truth remains the same,
There are no embroidered pillows or welcome mats waiting.
There are only semi-clean sheets and a toilet that's still flushing.
True, my heart gives into the hope of one day,
Laying my heart in the same place my head rests.
Maybe one day there will be a place to call mine.
Perhaps one day a place with warm words said,
And the comforts of a home that isn't fleeting.
Until then, I will keep on searching and seeking.
Only sometimes giving in to the fantasy of "Home."
About the Creator
Lena Folkert
Alaskan Grown Freelance Writer 🤍 Lover of Prose
Former Deckhand & Barista 🤍 Always a Pleaser & Eggshell-Walker
Lifelong Animal Lover & Whisperer 🤍 Ever the Student & Seeker
Traveler 🤍 Dreamer 🤍 Wanderer
Happily Lost 🤍 Luckily in Love
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More stories from Lena Folkert and writers in Poets and other communities.
High Rise, Deep Impact
I have witnessed a death that I relive every time I step into an elevator. Although it no longer affects me as deeply—given that it's been 11 years since the incident—it remains a heart- rending memory from my first and last day as a paramedic. My initial call to the scene involved a man who seemed to have fallen down the elevator shaft of a high-rise building. Alternatively, it might have been that the elevator moved upwards while he was working on it. Different scenarios were being considered when I arrived.
By Penelope Henain2 days ago in Writers
Comments (1)
Very sad but pretty, loved it <3