My 28 Homecoming Poems Submitted For A Vocal Challenge

I started writing poems on Vocal in April, yet I’ve been writing poetry for the last eleven years. Vocal was the first channel where I expressed my words outside of the desktop of my laptop. Here’s what I created for one of the Vocal Challenges – Homecoming, purposely, or reusing my already written and published poems.

1. My Temporary Home

I wrote this poem on April 11, 2021, as the date suggests. I always put dates below my poems to idicate the time of their creation, to remind myself of my life, which I have partially described in poetic form. This is also what this poem is like. It reflects my feelings from life in a nineteenth century tenement house, where every passing larger car, lorry, or bus caused the building to shake. The house was located on the corner of the long façade of interconnected buildings, so it took all the impact on its walls. In addition, I lived in the attic, which was unbearable in the weather around 30° C degrees, even with all the windows open. And spiders visited me regularly too, big, black, disgusting creatures coming out of the ventilation. Since then, I developed quite an intense fear of them, although I was bitten by the smallest representative of this species, which forced me to take the antibiotic for two weeks. All last winter, a neighbour downstairs worked from home (architectural call centre), and since his room ceiling and the floor in my room were made of wood, I heard his every word every day, turning into the couple’s gaze on life in the evenings.

The picture: I chose this photo when I first sent it to Vocal and it was supposed to show that my life has fallen asleep the whole time of living in this room. I realised all the damage me and others had done to me after I moved out. After submitting it to the Challenge, I wanted to change it, but I only published this poem on Medium with a different photo, I think more adequate (in fact it was floating dust visible there on a sunny day, captured once with my camera – unfortunately in lower quality than the photo contained therein).

2. Identity Theft

This poem was written as a reaction to the mistreatment by my parents when I visited them this year. It seemed as I was totally unnecessary at their house in my homeland as they waited for me to finally return to England, at least my dad breathed a sigh of relief. It was the cruellest realisation that I was troublesome by visiting them, knowing that they viewed my writing as entertainment. Writing is in fact my side job, for which no one has ever paid me a sufficient amount equalling a rent, for instance, a job that – yes, I do it for fun – is a lifetime remnant, as I always called it. I couldn’t survive without writing, this is my therapist, my best friend, my gentlest lover. It’s also my dream job, although I am the only one who believes it will hopefully happen in the near future.

The title: I took this term from a new ID form that I had to fill out. I couldn’t wait to collect this ID; it is still at my home town’s Borough Council because I couldn’t stay in this house that long. It complicates my life a bit, it’s good that I still have a valid passport.

The picture from Unsplash was titled “Basement” by the author, and it seemed more than appropriate for my story.

3. A Room Filled with Knickknacks

Another poem written during my last trip to my homeland. A sad, melancholic view from the past on my old room, also participating in the True Colors competition. There are many items in my room: school books, cassettes, CDs, books from the pastel collection. I collected a series of classical literature published in cooperation with one of the largest newspapers in Poland, and the covers were in pastel colours, which corresponded to the name of the broadcast from my favourite Polish Radio 3 “Pastel World of Rock” presented by Mr. Piotr Stelmach. Light azure cello and creamy mint piano/In the Greek theatre milieu was inspired by Alicia Keys’ music video “Karma”, in which she is portrayed with a purple piano in turquoise clothes in a Greek theatre [sic]. I painted a lot in my childhood, illustrating my fairy tale characters with crayons, which later led me to college painting classes, including oil painting, yet I did not pursue this path in my life. There are still old paints, mostly poster paint pots and watercolours that I only think about now, painting with my thoughts, not with my hands. We spent every vacation by the sea with my family, until my sister was born, blurring the view in front of me.

The picture: I saved a lot of pastel pictures from Unsplash that day, yet I really wanted to use the Ferris wheel for the simple reason of being directly related to a childhood. And the passenger cabins look like cotton candy, lollipops, ice cream, cupcakes, or balloons, so it is really beneficial for my story.

4. Conceal All The Weapons

Another result of my last trip to Poland. The unforeseeable sadness of solitude in my parents’ house, yet separated from them by a door of incomprehension. I wish things were different, I would like to speak to my father after he reported my visit to my sister on the phone and I was able to hear it. No words were spoken, my sister‘s adult decision was not to speak to me under certain presumed words I had told her, even though I hadn’t had a chance to say anything in two years because she was consequently avoiding me. My mother also blamed me for this condition, my father joined the crowd as if not knowing anything was a reason to blame me. Now my father passed away, and I will never have a chance to explain anything, not that he wanted to listen, but at least I could try and feel better. Now it is too late. Conceal all the weapons.

The picture: The simpler the better. I need a chair to write and that is my point of view. (Of course, what goes on in my head and on the keyboard it's a much deeper story.)

5. Strewn With Sorrow

It was the result of my visit to my parents: deep sorrow lasted for a month in the worst year of my life for me (and it’s not over yet). I’m the one always beaten and bruised, although now my wounds are invisible, so who would have believed me if I hadn’t told you about them? This is the main point of writing – to express these feelings, feel that someone is listening there, and the pain can be elevated and tranferred to another level, perhaps the level of literature.

The picture: Imagining what Poland would look like from the English coast. Fuzzy, but always clear in my mind.

6. Longsight M13 *

This long poem was a letter to my mother, also sent to Boss Mom and Social Shock Challenges. Cruel, but this is how I felt and still feel many times, competing with my sister, as if we were warriors fighting for my parents’ attention, from now only my mother’s. I never thought that by taking care of my sister, treating her like my own child, I would have to live in a world without her, what’s worse – with her malicious tongue against me.

Each stanza contains thirteen verses. I wanted to include thirteen stanzas as well, but as I wrote, more and more facts visualised before my eyes, without which the picture would be incomplete. Of course, this is only one way of looking at the problem, yet it’s like a thorn that will probably never heal because I’m alone to put all the pieces together, with amnesia on the part of my family and my constant confusion and inability to move forward.

The picture: Bad luck, black cat. Marvellous, with poster images in the background. The description said it was taken outside of a bookshop in Venice, Italy. Even better.

7. Soldier Sworn to Secrecy

This poem is dedicated to my dad. He wasn’t the easiest parent in the world (which of your fathers is, raise your hand first), yet I always knew he was my dad. Demanding, offensive, misunderstanding, but still the same blood, skin inherited with the same problems, perhaps even the same creative mind, albeit in opposite areas.

The picture: Annie Spratt + Daddy graffiti = me. It couldn’t have been better.

8. Orange Star in The Sky of Turmeric

Again, a poem dedicated to my parents, the last in a series written in May. Butterfly walls and monochrome women are posters from calendars stuck to the walls of my room in Poland, because there has never been time for renovation and I have not lived there for eight years. I also have decorations on one of the shelves, including fragile filigree figurines of animals that remind me of myself from living with my parents for the first thirty years of my life. The atrocious basement is/was a place where my parents have/had their kitchen, my dad had his house wine and a vaporiser, even though it was bad for his health. Turmeric tea was healthy, I left it to him once, I don’t know if he drank it. I wrote this poem when I was back in England, looking at the afternoon sky with white clouds reminding me of all the time I spent there.

The picture: Magic food image resembling night sky. Isn’t that wonderful? Monika Grabkowska and Jocelyn Morales have also joined the group of my favourite Unsplash photographers.

9. Europeans

This poem is a brief summary of the end of the room tenancy with a few Italians in the scenery who were there just to cause trouble. I had planned to leave earlier, exactly a year ago, yet deferring my studies forced me to stay there for a year longer. I regret I had met these people, but I had no influence on it. They said different things while talking to me in private and different things to their landlord. Europe is not cohesive, I don’t think any country is in this day and age, and each of us has a different definition of decency.

The picture: Beautiful black & white. There were many construction sites in my previous town as it was more development oriented. I’m afraid that didn’t mean much of personal development for most of the adults living there.

10. New Home

The first poem that was created in a new place. I wanted to document my new reality, my new home, because I knew that it would not be possible later, only in the first moments of life in a new place. I also wanted to inhabit the place and tame the fear of the new setting. Eventually I moved out of the city where I lived for the first eight years in the UK. It wasn’t easy. Everything was opposite to easy. After surviving harassment for being honest and telling a man I was paying rent that I am leaving, skipping payment for the last month due to lack of funds because I did not believe he would return my deposit without even having time to sign my tenancy agreement, after four years I changed the most familiar walls. The fact that I changed the date of my move to the day before (due to abuse) meant that I found the new place completely out of control. Out of control in my mind. Having an OCD is not advantageous in this case, especially when you are dealing with dirt that is caked not only on the usual places, but on everything you look at: on the refrigerator, blinds, furniture, etc. At least some of the furniture was mine so I could avoid more surfaces for deep cleaning. During the first weeks, I had a fever from cleaning the house on my own for several hours a day. I would clean more, but the urge to write held me back enough. I am eternally grateful to my new landlord for providing cleaning products and being extremely hopeful. And the price of the apartment was lowered before I moved in, so that was an extra benefit I received from him. Thank you, David.

The picture: I live close to the sea so of course the photo had to show that. It reminds me of a time when Daniel Craig as Bond in “Skyfall” moved to the island after MI6 declared him dead. I love cinematography from this point on in this movie.

11. New Home 2

In this poem, I tried to capture the moment in the morning when the only sounds I heard were seagulls invading the roof of my block. My apartment is on the second floor, so I could hear perfectly well what was happening at the bird meeting place. Usually, they stomped loudly on the roof, screaming nearby. I preferred them to my neighbours, at least they didn’t disturb me to sleep or write or read. I found them friendly as they seemed to know more than humans, regardless of our grounded existence on Earth. The sea is about half an hour from my neighbourhood and the River Colne is purposely kept at low tide to avoid overflow, so here we go: a poem about seagulls in charge of crows, pigeons, and humans by a river that flows into the sea.

The picture: The seagulls were my first neighbours in a new place.

12. New Home 3

As I like to experiment with writing, I wrote a poem using the same themes from the former piece and enveloped it in the form of alliterations grouped into only three words in each verse. Something like this came out. For those who don’t understand this kind of surreal expression in text, a tip: each word has more meaning in it, as a combination of more words in a shorter form. For instance, charcoal could mean "night" or "dark feelings" that I experienced while being constantly alone, only able to inhale sounds and visions from my neighbourhood. A description of a lonely girl hiking among hordes of humans, birds, trees, and a river that is a significant part of the surroundings. I enjoyed writing this poem more than the milieu in which I wrote it. C’est la vie.

The picture: Seagulls again, close-up. Exquisite.

13. New Home 4

A poem about depressive feelings in a time when there was no sun, only rain, so I was stuck at home at a point where I had anything from the outside world in my life (temporarily), so my soul was complaining a lot about it. But fortunately, I had Vocal Challenges that fuelled me, and sometimes there were poems like that stemmed on the side. I wrote this poem about the time when SFS was announced so the ride started at full throttle. If the view from behind the blinds is not interesting, you definitely have to look into your soul. And don’t be afraid if it’s dark in there – it’s purifying.

The picture: This is what depression looks like in the city. “Inverse Sky B&W” by Jr Korpa – I think not only my one of the favourite photographers from Unsplash.

14. New Home 5

My new landlord noticed that I live in a considerate way as I struggled to clean up everything possible in the apartment, including the probably never rinsed detergent dispenser drawer in the washing machine. I didn’t want to break it while pulling as it was the type I had never seen before, so he sent me the manual. He also mentioned that cleaning/destroying things is therapeutic during dismantling the second couch from the flat (yes, the red one from one of my poems) with his own equipment. I know not all tenants in the area are lucky to have a helpful landlord as mine. I think that with this poem I said “yes” to life again, because no stagnation will last forever, although it always gives the impression that it will never end.

The picture was taken at the end of May, on my first visit to the flat, and then it was nothing like it anymore (this greenish mud monster just can’t be compared to anything else), so I think I was fortunate.

15. New Home 6

The biggest problem for me from the first night of living in a new accommodation. My Asian neighbour. He tended to open balcony doors 24 hours a day, inviting friends, throwing parties, laughing (I think he was on drugs like a lot of people here – as someone told me – because this kind of laughter is not normal, excessive). I could hear him when I woke up, when I was going to sleep, or rather waited for him to laugh at the whole world and get bored, finally silencing his lips. The first night I was in the new place I called the police, but they were unable to do anything about it, even considering nuisance noise at night. However, the next day the police knocked on the door of my apartment, looking for someone else. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? I was planning on calling the manager of his building when my landlord took a picture from his staircase, but the guy was less and less vocal [sic], so I didn’t want to cause trouble mainly to myself. Now it’s much better than before (the season has changed considerably), although those balconies and parking spaces right in front of our noses aren’t the best solution in the area where the echo between buildings is too loud and spreads at the speed of a fireball.

It’s the most read Homecoming poem on my Vocal profile, so thank you to all my friends. I feel like we are fighting with this guy together. He won’t have a chance in this world then, because there are thousands of us and he only has a few insane friends.

The picture shows a fragment of an apartment block, later I realised that the block in front of me looks like it on one side from my window, only in a slightly different colour scheme. Coincident? I don’t think so. Writers have the best intuition, even if they apprehend it long after the fact, but still.

16. New Home 7

This and the next poem compare two cities: the one that I left and the one that I have just encountered in reality, even though I painstakingly studied the Google map for the whole year. Obviously, it’s not the same. I have noticed that there are more Brits on this side of London (East), the generation is older, but there are also more young people. Just like in my hometown in Poland. I noticed that I can find a target here. People are reading here and it is so visible that there is nothing to be ashamed of! When you live in multicultural towns or cities, these boundaries are not always discernible. They may be closer to you when you participate in particular activities, but if you go to the bookstore and the audience asks for books rather than just taking them off the shelves, it’s something that will stay in your memory forever. I feel different here and found that if I engage more with the public by being polite, they can easily reciprocate with the same gestures which makes life much better. And that's exactly the opposite of west side of London, where I have spent the last eight years. I also created a different character for one of my books while being here, another detective, so as of today I have three books started in English. It's not easy to achieve my goals when they're scattered like this, I know, but I hope my characters help each other. I must use them to my advantage and help them find a way out.

My apartment is a bit rusty on the radiators from former tenants and the paint is peeling off in many places, but it’s still better than sharing the same space with strangers.

The picture: Jr Korpa, the city, the greenery, the people. Perfect for my story, also in a cycle.

17. Incomparable

Comparisons without end… It took me a while to find the same shops, for instance, to do some shopping, because the centre is a labyrinth for me, now fortunately figured out more. I have to admit I missed my old town for the first month or two of being in a new place, but the only thing I missed was the city itself and my good past, so it’s understandable that if it’s gone anyway, time to move on. Time for new memories in a new place, although these two towns are not comparable, as if they were sometimes two different countries, different mentality of people, and a different climate of these two cities. I never would have thought it would be so, and yet I had to accept it in order to live on, study for the future. Whatever the future holds, I'll take it with open arms as always.

The picture: Jr Korpa continued. This time from an oblique perspective, adequate to the street view.

18. Bursting Bubble

The first poem written specifically for this Challenge. Disturbing ambient noises forced me to devote my precious time exclusively at night, because during the day even simple tasks seemed impossible without headphones and a music library on the laptop. Everything burst in my head at the same time as the environment was enforcing its power. It is also not advisable for mental health, and paradoxically, the tasks I know that are good for my health are not viable when there are speaking surroundings. That’s why “Bursting Bubble”, my anxiety, anger, and abhorrence towards humans producing these sounds that stay in my brain for a long time. (Hint: the theme will continue in the poem “Living With Animals”.)

The picture: Jr Korpa’s “Window of An Expressionist Street” – very inspiring.

19. Excessive Explosive Exposure

I didn't know that one of my many photos taken in my old town would become an illustration for this poem. The suddenness of closing and opening the doors of nearby vehicles is not without significance here. As for me, I passed the theoretical driving test and was planning to start practicing driving after leaving my previous physical job. Unfortunately, COVID has immobilised the entire world. I've always dreamed of driving a Mini Cooper, but in January next year my theory will expire and after careful consideration how people use their driving ability, I will now be afraid to drive. I also started working for a roadside assistance company, which doesn’t make it any easier. But its’ fine. At least I can complain in my poems that leaving a car running and not driving is a waste of fuel, it damages the environment, and in addition it causes damage to my brain by watching all the stupidity around. This is also reflected in the title of my poem.

20. A Real Historical Place

Third and final poem submitted for this Challenge with my own photo (after “New Home 5” and “Excessive Explosive Exposure”). This time I described the oldest parts of the oldest town in Great Britain where I currently live. I knew I would be living in the oldest city in the UK, but did not realise that on one of my afternoons walks towards the centre, I would discover original red Roman bricks embedded in the city's structure. It’s very impressive. Ruins, castle, Roman street names, Roman columns (I don't think they are original from the time, but it's quite stunning how the architects followed their inspiration dictated by the history). The French were here as well and Charles Gray owned and improved the castle in the 18th century. The castle has a whole interactive museum for families who can walk among the ruins, returning from shopping and heading to the car park. The past and the present certainly have their place of constant meeting here.

21. Seven Deadly Sins

My father built the house himself with a little help from my family who refused to buy land in the 1980s. In the 1980s, land was cheap. My parents put all their effort into this house and garden while working full time all their lives. Yet all this time I felt like they were forgetting that the most important part was people. They certainly couldn't have foreseen what would be in the future, they both wanted us (my sister and I, their children) to live there, because there is a lot of space there. Nevertheless, this space is not split to live comfortably as an adult and my sister and I always bring this up to my parents. They both focused on improving, growing, and nurturing, but only on what was important to them: new fruit trees, new vegetables, greenhouses, fighting plant diseases, etc. Meanwhile, the ailment affected us all: my father began to eat and drink more with age, I started collecting music excessively from the age of 18, my sister moved from home to the bigger city, and my parents financed her life, leaving me without the support I needed. In the end, my parents were left alone in the colossal house. It was not their dream, yet they had to accept it as there is no way to live in this house. Would you like your mother to inspect your fridge even if she doesn’t use it? (Hint: look at the last poem submitted for this Challenge: “Home Arrest”.) She thinks it’s the most helpful, yet for me – having freedom written on my forehead – it’s a lost fight for independence every time I try to buy something I like to eat the most during my short stay in there and find that effort sadly futile because she completely disregards me in this department, acting offended as if my personal and healthy choices didn’t matter at all. I think she would like us, two adult women, my sister and I, to be her little children again as she never accepted our maturity, never accepted that my "escape" from the country was because I didn’t see a chance to grow in my own country, as well as to communicate with my parents. I know it’s very common these days, and my situation is no exception, and yet it still hurts and I still can’t come to terms with my father’s death, the fading out of the ignition of all of this nonsense, and that my mum was finally left alone there. My dad once boasted that he had a cleaner, a cook, and an errand person, while he was getting fatter, and my mum was getting thinner. How cruel is that?

The story with the priest is also true. My mother once told me that a clergyman of our church in my small town has a child and a woman. On that day, my whole world turned upside down as I lost my ability to believe the Mass. Mass destruction – yes, Mass in the church – definitely not. Also, when I prayed, it seemed to me that everything I asked for had a negative effect, as if my prayers were doing harm, not blessing. So, I stopped. How my mum deals with it I can’t explain, but it shows how much her brain is different from mine and therefore she will never fully understand me, even though I tried to explain a lot to her on the way.

My childhood/Reinvented in my many dreams will return in the poem “I Miss My Home In My Every Dream”.

The picture: I couldn't think of anything better for this story than the illustration from the article that inspired my poem. It's also black and white and it's perfect.

22. My Multiple Homes

This poem describes my going out from the smallest town in the world (yet not a village) to the biggest city in the world (I live very close to London). I definitely felt and still feel like it was/is a culture shock. But the best one that has ever happened in my entire life. I am still learning England, the English ways, now more than ever, just like there are more Native British in my new city than in the former one. In my previous place, there were more jobs without language requirements, which is why my countrymen lived in this place more often. But for me the only difference is that while I cannot capture all the richness of the English language, it does not really matter much at work as I have had excellent training in retail for several years which is paying off now. English for me is like driving a car for some people – I will never forget it because I feel it is buried deep inside me, and when I write, read or speak, I retrieve it from the depths of my mind every time. I have a theory that it is the language of my soul that speaks to me at critical moments to overcome a crisis. It started when I was living in Poland and lasted all these years, so I don’t think such a combination would lead me anywhere else in the world. I love England and English language, its feeling, pace, accentuation. What I do not like is the stupidity and rudeness of many Britons, but unfortunately this is also often the case in my own country.

The picture – a sentiment. I have always seen this view from the train in the summer around my hometown and I will never forget it. Of course, a Polish photographer.

23. My Home…

“My home is my soul”. It has always been like this for as long as I can remember. The lack of human contact forced me to re-invent my inner personality and – which I had not realised from the beginning – to write. However, I always thought that writing a journal about the most difficult moments of my days spent in and out of school would lead me to a complete failure. It was only after I stopped writing a diary (which eventually turned into writing notes from books I read) that I discovered I had stories to tell, either fictional, half fictional and half personal, or purely personal. This led me to write tons of poems practically every day, one whole book for adults and one for young adults (both in Polish), books for children and hundreds of ideas for more, now also in English. Not bad, eh?

The picture: Annie Spratt is my favourite photographer from Unsplash. I don’t think anyone should be surprised if I like retro, traditional British brick, and fleeting moments captured in sepia or shades of grey.

24. Living With Animals

Another poem about my present neighbourhood. It is also the result of learning the sounds made by animals, because I have never acquired such knowledge while learning English in my own country. One article I read some time ago on the internet completely changed my perspective. I could easily identify with it by listening to people around me making similar sounds. I don’t think I exaggerated in my poem because I have felt this way for a long time. It was also the result of being home all the time for almost three months, and we all know it's unhealthy. I still like this poem, it's funny and scary at the same time, and I'm not sure my neighbours who make these sounds appreciate how my ears perceive it. As with my Asian neighbour from the poem "New house 6", every time someone is excessively loud here, I feel locked in with that person in the same apartment, even though I live alone. But there you go, that’s the charm of living in glass houses, where most space is taken by balconies, windows, and echoing walls.

The picture: My eyes and ears, my camera. Could not be different. The photo – as the description on Unsplash suggests – was taken near my location, which is an added plus. And it’s vintage as well. I always look at the whole thing, as you probably all noticed by now.

25. Home Is Where The Heart Is

Another written commendation for England, showing my journey from a slightly different angle than in “My Multiple Homes”. A homage to my new country, England. I think deep down I have always felt that this would be my destiny. I believe my intuition led me here.

The picture: It brings to mind Scotland, don’t you think? I’ve never been this far, still in my plans.

26. I Miss My Home In My Every Dream

While in Poland, I dream about England at night and I desperately want to come back as soon as my plane lands. While in England, not a week goes by without the streets of my hometown visualising my REM sleep. It’s very weird, I always have dreams about my school years and the streets surrounding my house in Poland with people from there, my family, and my childhood friends.

The picture. I have a photograph from the first communion on a red background, where my hair is the longest I have had in my whole life, because my mother encouraged me to do it then, and I easily obeyed, as it was a kind of tradition. I look magical in this photo and wanted to use it in this poem, but unfortunately this photo is still in Poland while I'm in England at the moment so there was no chance of that. Instead, another black and white photo of Annie Spratt that fits my story no less. Derived from old negatives as she often uses vintage slide scans.

27. On The Border Of Two Worlds

In this poem I complained about many of my countrymen who usually use everything that is Polish, even though they have lived in England for several years. It is alarming how many citizens of my country cannot communicate in English and are forced to use the help of friends who are more educated in this subject. I wonder why they came here, and the evident explanation is earnings. But the fact that they don't speak English fluently leads them to not have a job that they could easily have had if they spoke the language. It's a vicious circle that I will never understand because English is the easiest language in the world to communicate. I've always thought of it this way: to take money you have to deserve it, and not knowing the language is sheer ignorance. Ten years is more than enough to at least learn to speak, as it is the basis of a better life. But some people still can't get it, and only their children are worthy of English citizenship by growing up in a different world from their parents.

The picture: It shows my duality. I wanted to use a photo of the passport, but it seemed too obvious. When I found this picture of the girl and her reflection, it fell into the right place. She also reminds me of the Ukrainians who plague my country and I don't like the fact that one country is invading another. The picture from Unsplash was taken in Lithuania bordering Poland.

28. Home Arrest

A poem dedicated to my mother. For the eight years I went back to my parents, I felt this way, but I denied it and finally couldn't cope with it. Maybe it was because I felt that my parents were more distant to me, and the reason was my sister, who was the only one visiting them regularly every week and after trying to convince me that she was spending more time at home, while I spent thirty years of my life there and she is not even that old. But the fact was that they supported her more, so she supported them in old age as well. I think it is right to think this way.

This is the last poem I wrote for the Homecoming Challenge, and the only poem in this series that was written after my father died. I wrote much more poems than the ones I sent for this challenge, but writing this article and starting a new job (already twice, with different trainers) took me a lot off the course, so thank you for making it this far with me. I hope you’ve enjoyed the story so far.

The picture: When I found this photo on Unsplash, I laughed. I knew it was appropriate for my story from the first glance at it. I would never have thought of a better way to end this cycle. It was a wonderful ride.

Conclusion

So, as you can see form my poems, the theme of Home is inconsistent. For me, it can mean country of origin, country of residence, street, neighbourhood, city (past and present), childhood memories, memories of visits to the homeland, memories of parents. It could mean anything you’re related to, even a dog if you have one. I don’t have a dog, I wish to have my first very own dog, not dependent on anyone else but me. Yet first I have to have my own apartment, a house (if I’m lucky), a place to call my own HOME. I think it may take a while, but isn’t it that you have to wait for all the good things in life? I’m sure everyone will agree with me.

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Note: Forgive the publication time of this article, but when I finally finished writing it, my life sped up again and I didn't have time to edit. And since my redactions tend to take longer than the writing itself, I only used my time when I wasn't working or studying, in the meantime also reading some supporting books for my book in progress. I found more time and willingness to further edit sitting at home with a fever, cough, and runny nose, although not COVID-based (proven). I don't know what will survive in my life after sitting at home this week, but of one thing I'm sure – the urge to write will not stop until I die. It was close to a few days ago when a loudly accelerating car left the roundabout and it was probably a few millimetres from hitting me while I was crossing the road. So, I consider myself lucky to have finished this article, published it, and I am looking forward to the time when more will come to light from the depths of my lovely laptop. Until then!

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Thank you for reading!