Home is something unknown to me.
like trying to reach the bottom of the sea.
a pressure so great I always feel it to be.
I’ve started to feel it’s something not for me.
home is somewhere safe and warm,
I’ve not found this in any form.
now I sit silently in a vacant dorm,
overwhelmed with a feeling of distant impatience.
Am I destined to be constantly adrift I see a tear
crying all day has become my norm,
looking for a place I fear don’t exist,
in the heart of someone so torn.
I travel the world in search of a place for me
my soul yearns for a feeling of belonging,
never stopping to look and admire sites so clear
home isn’t for me has become my biggest fear.
regret is building as I avoid all connect to anyone that
might never see that I’m here,
hiding in the dark pushing away anyone that might be hurt by,
my passing glance for if I let them in it will make it harder to leave
on the day that my heart tells me, it’s time to retreat.
I don’t get attached for I know that ill eventually leave.
yet I wish for a connection or a sign that this may be,
a place I call home because I need that relief.
does home exist in this world?
will I roam this planet for eternity?
I ask for some time in each place,
it feels like a race but never find my space.
dazed and confused but I’m always replaced,
I think I find a home so I think I find release?
Could this be it? Oh god, let it be oh please.
This seems ok for a while maybe home is here
Then without a warning like a tornado that ripped through the field,
It’s gone in an instant and I’m back where I began
Alone and distraught with just the bag in my hand.
All that I’ve wanted, all the work I’ve put in up in smoke leaving me broke and confused.
What’d I do this time for this comfort to disappear?
Maybe someday I’ll learn the mistakes I’ve made
then in a glimpse home might just come near.
Close enough for me to see and then all might be clear.
But till that day arrives I’m searching for a place to call home.
A love I can lay my head safely without any fear.
About the Creator
J.B. Rage
the elusive wordsmith, dances on the edge of reality& imagination. Born in shadowed alleys of forgotten libraries, His ink-stained fingers weave tales that defy gravity& logic. His typewriter hums secrets, As his quill whispers to the moon.
Comments (1)
J.B. Rage your poem captures the complexities of the search for home and the longing for a place of acceptance and love.