my home,
is a place for my thoughts, my aches, and my limp body,
a place that is safe where I can be the most exposed,
a room containing pandoras box suffocating the room,
When the darkness has plagued every crevasse of the city,
I can run back to my refuge full of light,
but like refugee I still feel displaced within the four walls,
a place where I do not belong,
but yet is all that I have, to call my own,
A home,
I remind myself that this is a place to sleep
a room containing pandoras box,
To rest my fallen head,
A neck collapsed from the heaviness,
A place where I leave my heavy body to leave for the seven heavens,
or maybe hell,
for 8 hours I depart on a journey,
my body wishes somedays for my soul not to return,
Somedays my ovaries hurt, as if someone has twisted them into oblivion,
the feeling of knives slaughtering animals,
how the body screams as it killed without will,
How I am left, undrugged, hoping the plants will save me
This homeless home of mine,
a place where I do not belong yet is all that I have,
I must make a temple out of,
I must make the living space into a shrine,
A place full of holiness,
a place for me,
My home,
with red tulips, sunflowers and purple petunias,
a bed full of roses full of scented hope,
a kitchen that sings health and therefore wealth,
My lazy limp body finally gets to rest,
within these four walls,
Must I confess,
That I am the loneliest of beings,
Forever trying to create a Garden of Eden from the forbidden fruits.