A Question on Home

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I have found
nothing
in all my travels,
in all my stability,
nothing,
that feels like
a piece of home
worth planting;
Only parts
of a brickwork
blocking me
even further
from the
ignorance
of my past
where
home is feeling,
but no,
home is not a feeling,
for feelings are fleeting;
Home instead
is a story
gathered by memories,
fought by disease,
won by the salt
that comes
from laughter
and pain
mixing together
to create
a new frame
only to be broken
but built once more.
Is home the constant
destruction of comfort
in order to realize
the comfort in chaos?

Pieces

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I see a little piece of you
wherever I go,
wherever I stay,
wherever I run away to.

I see a little piece of me
wherever I hide,
wherever I write,
wherever I avoid truth.

I see pieces of us,
scattered, shattered,
in places we’ve never seen
or ever will see.

Pieces I step on,
one by one,
in a mosaic of
forgotten memory.

Again

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People tell me they find
they can only write when
they are in deep pain.
I find pain does not
fuel my ink, for all I
can write on the page is
your name. Over and over
and over and over again.