Home is where you’re comfortable. Where you’re at ease and see How you can accept and relish beauty It is tied to identity and who we wish to be It is a place, a hope, a memory, a destination It is the self and others It is transient yet an anchor I once knew a restless girl Who traveled the world in search of home. She found it within herself And she was free. Home here grows and it knows you and it wants you here where you are comfortable and free. Home here is happy and shows you who you are and where you want to be.
About the Creator
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Poem of a crazy dream
You were there, your face looked like a leopard then it transitioned into an angel moon. Ghosts danced about then fire fell from the sky and the fire was glowing multicolored orbs. Where they struck steam sprouted and out leaped multicolored frogs, bright and glowing and poisonous. The ground shook and the frogs vaporized. A deep low voice grumbled “This is the sixth extinction.” The forests burned and glaciers fell from the sky, and we were in a cold ocean, green glowing sharks flying around us. The ocean drained and we laid on a cracked desert littered with dried bones of sharks and dinosaurs. You looked at me and said you loved me anyways. But I realized I wasn’t there. You spoke the words to no one. Maybe to all earth and existence. The little left of it. Then I was in New York, but New York was like Disneyland but with metal towers and everything a giant mall and around every corner was a new celebrity, and I walked until New York ran out and I was back in the desert with the giant shark bones, but I was so much smaller. I looked down and the New York Disneyland mall was the size of a shoe. It sunk in the sand and out crawled a shoe sized scorpion. I noticed the sun had set and visible galaxies swirled above. Either the reflection of a galaxy shimmered on the scorpion’s black mirror like shell, or it was transparent, and a galaxy swirled inside of it. “Where are you?” I asked. Laughter rained down on me. “You are alone,” a voice said. “All else is an illusion.” A string orchestra played a sad song and I cried.
By Cameron Glenn3 years ago in Poets
The Cost
There is always a cost. Not the dramatic kind people imagine, not the cinematic sacrifice that earns applause, but the quiet, relentless toll that transformation demands. The cost begins long before you rise and continues long after you land. It threads itself through every choice, every boundary, every refusal to return to the version of yourself that once made survival look effortless.
By Elisa Wontorcik5 days ago in Poets
Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts5 days ago in Longevity
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