The Fantasy of "Home"

It’s nothing so cliché as the place my heart lives.

Nothing so secure as the place my soul feels safe.

I never allow myself the false hope of kind words being said,

Nor do I give into wild expectations of an actual bed.

For me, home is simply the place I lay my head.

From simple houses to fleabag motels,

And forfeit cars to fancy roadside rest areas.

I’ve made camp in them all, never expecting a forever home.

I’ve always longed for the place to call my own,

Always dreamed of that place I feel safe and warm.

Still, the truth remains the same,

There are no embroidered pillows or welcome mats waiting.

There are only semi-clean sheets and a toilet that's still flushing.

True, my heart gives into the hope of one day,

Laying my heart in the same place my head rests.

Maybe one day there will be a place to call mine.

Perhaps one day a place with warm words said,

And the comforts of a home that isn't fleeting.

Until then, I will keep on searching and seeking.

Only sometimes giving in to the fantasy of "Home."