Whimsical Warmth

Home is not always a place, nor is it always a family, a partner, or a pet.

Home is where your heart can be bare with no bounds,

Accepted with no judgment,

Protected unconditionally,

And grow through self-discovery and its desires.

My home is this.

My canvas of blank white pages.

I am no Picasso or Monet,

But give me a pen, and I can paint you a picture.

Words flow like a rush of watercolors,

As my mind opens the door to a world like no other.

Only then can I put a face to a name and a beating heart to a story.

I see hues radiating around the characters who come alive under my pen,

from the sadness in their demeanor to the charm they exert.

They brighten my world,

although I know it is all fiction.

Still, it is my Wonderland. It is my home.

Sadly, the days' callings pull me away from my warmth and comfort.

I close the door and stow away my pen and blank pages as if it was a shiny gold key.

I go back to my obligations as the stresses pile on me, once again.

Still, I look forward to running back,

Back to my wooden desk,

Where my blank white pages await,

And my shiny gold pen opens the front door,

Where my cultivated tales of contemporary romance and the supernatural

Beckon me to splash more colors to the whimsical warmth I call home.