Home Sweet Home

How I feel when I write.

 

Every time my ink opens a door in the void of white

I feel like I’ve finally come home

after a long day of trials and consequences

(The latter exceeding the previous)

to a place where I am I

and I exist.

All burdens of rules and relationships

carried on my weary shoulders

now rest on the coat rack along my with my hat

which condenses all free will and independent thought

inside my head where society believes it belongs.

The den is my inner cerebellum;

a deep, dark, unexplored cave

in which many new wonderful specimens flourish,

waiting to see the light of the flashlight I carry.

In my bed is where the cave caves in

and I become trapped in my thoughts and visions

of apocalypses and loves not lost, but never obtained,

of stunning realism and abstract vaporations

where real and fantasy meet and, perchance,

create something more fantastic than ever conceivable

in the dull gray world to where we return,

coat and hat dawned to face the new day to day routine,

to go and appreciate who we really are

when eyes fall into darkness.