On My Doorstep: A Memory

I'm sorry that I am the way I am,

With nothing to admire from all I've wrought.

My 'skilled' attempts, endeavors, come to naught.

No friends to help me, 'sooth not even fam.

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I take a trip, Romance's yesteryear

Into my place of birth, but not my home.

I find an absence here, where e'er I rome.

The nemeses of happiness: my tear.

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I go into the house and grab a tome

With pictures of times my patience fought

To wait until my sense of self had caught

A whiff of who I be. But there epitome

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Of beauty just outside my door begot

By Gods and patience I have long been taught.