Write or wrong?

I’ve always wished what that felt like.

I guess that’s the hole in my spirit and soul,

a part of life I never knew and still don’t know.

Unstable since birth,

my feet and eyes have touched

many parts of the city’s dirt.

There was always a new place, with a new taste,

with a new way to live in a smaller space.

A bedroom was always the missing piece,

for me as a kid.

My home consists of many different environments

around many different towns.

I never believed my home was broken,

because it was never built.

It is a harsh reality and for some, it kills.

If home was ever to be real, this is how it would feel;

My Grandma making fresh flour tortillas,

that will always be home to me,

with running the streets of Maravilla.

It’d be having King Taco too,

up the block with all the panaderias.(bakery)

Run ins with old friends on Whittier Boulevard,

or just cruising down Chavez

passing Belvedere, heading to Obregon park.

Those were the days to Boyle Heights,

when we made way just to get some shaved ice.

Having to wait for the sixty eight, early or late.

The town I know is my only home,

that’s something I can never change.

Home is knowing, bus stops and routes.

It’s knowing your back streets,

shortcuts to skip traffic without a doubt.

It's where community is found.

What is a home though, if it was never a house?

That's what I always used to think at least.

For that the streets became home to me,

that’s why I was always hanging out.

Being "home" never spoke to me that loud,

because it’s where you should feel safe and proud.

I never had any friends over,

I was always at someone else’s house.

Home is like no other place they say,

even if you’re sleeping on the neighborhood streets,

because people there recognize your face.

Home is what you make of it and where.

It should feel right in this life,

but it could never be compared.

Home is warming with comfort,

throughout all the days and most at nights.

Home is the reason why,

life is filled with some type of delight.

It is somewhere you don’t have to hide or lie,

but rather to fly, with your own truth!

It is the only place where you can free

and settle the mind with no worry,

about anyone else coming through.

It holds no place for just one moment in time.

If it does it is because home starts with you,

and I await the day I can say,

it is mine.

There is no such thing as perfection,

home is only based on the views

of your own perception.

Home is what you feel, home is peace.

Home is what’s real,

home is what you believe.

For some others unfortunately,

home is something they may never get to see.