Definitions of Home: Part 4, “A Train”

Home isn’t a place or a person.
Home is an attitude.
Lying on the soft tiny bed in this train,
I realize that I’m not rushing to go anywhere.
I have what I need right here,
And it isn’t much better anywhere else.
I have peace of mind, comfort, and I have music if i need it.
Sure my relatives miss me sometimes and there are people who want to see me.
There are things for me to do somewhere.
But that’s all in the past and future.
Not on this train.
Here I am with myself,
And as long as I am with myself anywhere,
Anywhere can be home.
Any discomfort and uncertainty can be an adventure.
I don’t have to be afraid, as here I am just as safe and loved as anywhere else.
The world hasn’t stop spinning,
I am very much grinning.
I am on the train.
I am also home.

“Art…”

Art,
My sweet devil,
Save me.
I’ve
Gotten so comfortable with falling apart.

Emptiness,
Like the dried up stream,
I run from.
At times I’m fooled.
The stream is still dry.

Love,
A quest to find some spark,
Somewhere,
Some life.
My loving tears
Can’t turn a wasteland to a park.

Passion,
What is it?
Books, songs, dances,
I see nothing.
Sometimes so foreign,
Just like laughing.

Purpose?
I’ve erased them.
Nothing really worth it.
No difference can be made.
Living to live,
To what?

Continue reading “Art…”

“Definitions of Home: Part 2, Decorations”

I am finally home.
So what if words can’t capture
My candle dancing,
The flutter of eyelids,
The bear paw of perfectly warm tea.
Even in the moment of fading friendships,
Of shattered world views,
Of being lost and often insecure,
This room feels like hope.
More than four walls of white paint,
It is the mere possession of it
That indicates a life so far well spent.
The little touches of art,
The colors, the plants,
The notes that I have saved,
They are the makers of a “me.”
And although I deny
The existence of a static personality,
Or well defined traits,
There is something extremely comforting
In looking at something
And being able to point to it and say –
That’s me!

And perhaps even if this is not all of me,
It is alright because
just like words are not full feelings,
So are these objects and this room,
Puzzle pieces of a life in progress
Of a creature whose uniqueness is written in these fine details.
Home is the place where you can read about yourself.
I’m made these walls mine,
Now they’re here to remind me of who I am,
And when in doubt, to find myself again.

I read somewhere that great art never comes out of comfort…

I read somewhere that great art never comes out of comfort.
I’m on the hunt for that secluded meadow or the rosy park,
And when I find them, I wonder why I have nothing to write.
When things are too good, there is no story.
Happy love poetry is the driest subject of them all.
People’d rather know your tears when heartbroken;
They’d rather feel your biggest fall.
So I come inside from searching –
In a messy room, there’s no distraction from my mess.
And I quietly begin working,
To find and take the troubles off my chest.

Writing is like prostitution.
Selling your soul to the page.
Just as I begin to feel some emotion,
In the midst of my crushing sadness or miraculous contentment,
I think,
This would make an amazing poem,
And there I am,
Grabbing my journal and letting all that’s human in me go away
For the sake of one hundred, possibly decent words of writing.
I find it better to be overly emotional more of the time;
It makes the words flow better.
And that’s how we explain
Why all artists are insane.

“The Park”

I really am in a movie:
My flowery dress, my wild hair,
The leather journal in my hands,
A different look upon my face.
On a hidden bench by a large bush
I look on to life around me
And my heart calms to an almost undetectable speed.
The birds behind me keep going on
Like the group of school children who jump loudly
And skip on to their teacher.
Splotches of sunlight, here and there.
A woman on a bike passes
And looks at me weirdly
As if she’s never seen a girl with a notebook before.
Perhaps she never has.
The world should be ashamed.
At least the couple that sits by me doesn’t seem to notice.
They understand better,
My romantic painted world against theirs.
Like them, I don’t want to leave.
Like them, I’m going to have to,
To go on with my life.
Sunlight hits one more time,
And the garden becomes ten shades greener.
I hear a mother whispering to her child.
Then, even in this paradise,
I think of someone.
The magic’s lost.
It’s time to leave.

“Who I Want To Be With Now”

Who do I want to be with?
I ask myself as I look at the mysterious sunrise
Up in the sky as I swim.

Who do I want to be with?
I ask myself as I’m listening to soothing music playing,
And I’m falling into a dream.

Who do I want to be with now?
I ask as I see the lights of the city,
And I need to share the scene.

My head goes through scores of people,
Each with flaws beyond compare.
I feel no love beyond the daily,
No wish that’s in the proper extreme.

He hurt me,
She doesn’t love me,
This scenery he’d never understand.
I’m not one to spoil a pretty moment,
With the words and troubles of the wrong.

Who do I want to be with?
I answer:
Me, alone.
And with that stunning realization,
The world goes spinning on.