B: Regaining Strength: Home

Home, a place, a noun, a word-

In a heart, that knows not of those bounds ‘home’ means something other

To this heart it means someone, it means people, it means love

In truth, ‘home’ is where loved ones are,

Where the ones who one are cared about live their roles

When this hear reaches it, no city, no country, no ocean can breach

The connection to those who are the home of one’s true given need.

A house, a place, a welcome mat

These are known to a physical home

Psychologically, not able to understand this concept the one who feels does not know

Why is a home a thing? How can home be a stationary place?

What is home when there is no love?

In silence, a house will wait

To the person this heart belongs to,

Love runs deeper than any solid gate

However, home was never ‘one’ but ‘many’

Due to a search that this heart had made

A friend, a lover, a good companion

An abode did this heart contain

Spoken of in the physical world,

Still unknown to a brick weaved in cement

Confused but not confined to

The homes that this heart had gained

Warmth, no matter where it went

One word, Home: a natural connection to love in its finest state

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Status 2 - 100

Written 3.23.18

B: Regaining Strength: Breakdown

B - Book 
 -
Hear me out, my heart cries
While holding onto what’s left of me
With a pulse, it whispers,
“Do you remember, who you are?”

After all of these years of making others happy
Realization hit my core,
An aching heart, barely letting me breath
Reminds me, deep down I can’t get rid of the simplest parts of me

Take my mind, wash away creativity
Then the body, and who it belongs to
My eyes, see only black or white
As for my lips, I cannot speak without being spoken to

However, my heart, the deepest part of me
It may whisper but it is there.
Deep down, it calls for me, to remember
Drowning, in all other task at hand
Simple as a beat, it patiently waits for the time

When my ears hear it one day, and my mind becomes ablaze
A body not one’s own, controlled by another mind, is a puppet
Eyes that do not see detail might as well be blind
Lips that speak not for one’s self, have no use for a voice

Sunrise, the least expecting time.
At night I lie awake, then when the morning comes, I break
Thinking to myself, who am I? What have they turned me into?
To no avail, they come to me, barking commands.

“I am who I am.” I say, as they speak
Sharp, as a whip, they glare and ask, “Excuse me?”
Pulse into a pound, my heart tries to steady,
“This is it. Tell them who you are.”

Depending on the person, this may be easy
Others may not speak
Desperate, a heart will try to reach one’s sense
Although, not all will reach this moment

Some never understand why they don’t feel happy
Never once being allowed to feel for their own
Always being told what to do, how to do it, and when
Not once, being allowed to be who they are

Stripped away, their personalities are gone
Only black or white exist
Luckily, there is always a chance to recover
If only everyone knew how.
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 Status 1 - 100
3.1.18