Sheltered with only a few windows

Those in which are covered with plastic

Nothing comes in, nothing goes out 

Except for those bright rays of sunshine in which you sit to feel warm 

A storming of passion and doubt fill the cerebral cortex 

Even the brain grows tedious of incomplete thoughts 

But here you are, thinking, but of what exactly? 

“Here begins my story, but let me tell you about the time my fish jumped to their death” 

“I know what love is, I think, I mean let me give you an example..” 

“You know what’s funny?? The time...” 

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” 

And so on. 





And surprisingly great conversationalist, 

Unless you’re like not giving me enough detail then honestly..

So back to square one, 

My home. 

The furnace begins to scream to merely make me feel the slight temperature change of 68 degrees 

I tend to forget sometimes that this is a Home, in all sense of the word. 

I also tend to forget why I’m even here in the first place, 

To make a difference? 

To be a savior of some kind? 

To change the mind of another? 

Or to become a mother and not receive that in which I have not given? 

I’m merely a fifth of a century and I think I should have it all figured out 

For do I actually know how to love another in which I don’t give myself the same amount of gratitude

Can a person ever really go crazy? 

See we all perceive our matter in this world to be just as good enough, or sometimes not and what do we do? 

We drink, we smoke, we work out, we have sex

We all do something in order to FEEL something. 

So why not let my thoughts ponder and argue, and agree 

For I am here to talk about a home, in which was all a home and just a house all at once. 

To leave and forget, only to return and remember. 


This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741