Roam Home

Home is subjective,

And I’m just here to be objective.

Maybe because my home has never been stable,

Even though my mom did all that she was able.

From house to house, block to block,

We moved all throughout Brooklyn around the clock.

Basements, first floors, and living with family,

Is home really something obtained financially?

We had clothes and we had food,

We always went to school.

I had good grades

And got straight A’s

But...

My mom always worked and my dad hardly there,

The loss of our apartment was a frequent scare.

“A home is where you live and a place to come back to”, I was always told,

But that is not how my story unfolds.

My home is not a house or a bed,

My home is something felt instead.

My home is warm and embraces me.

My home has never left me.

Even when I thought I didn’t have one,

My home was never gone.

My home is the love I always received.

My home is the love in which I always believed.

My home starts in me because I am me first,

Then my home extends to those where the love is dispersed.

I was raised by a single mother, but there was still a village,

I was taught etiquette and class, a reflection of their image.

Grandmas, Grandpas, Aunts, Uncles, cousins, and friends,

They all played their part the way nature intends.

So you see, my home is not a person nor a place,

My home is the love that fills up my space.