How to make a home away from home

How to make a home away from home

Step into the room that is now to be your kitchen, sitting room,

Dining room and bedroom for the next three years and try

Not to feel claustrophobic,

These walls aren’t your enemies,

Learn to love them

For they are all you will see

On the long nights when you cannot sleep,

When your mind is a battlefield,

And the only thing that will calm you

are these white walls silently staring back at you.

Walk out into the torrential rain

That seems to go on for hours to come.

Feel your lungs breathe in the same air but

yet become heavier.

And somehow these raindrops that touches your skin

Feels cold and unwelcoming.

See these aliens pass you by and search for

familiarity on their faces and friendly smiles.

Find another lost soul,

Because you are certainly not the only one

Trying to make a home out a place that is far from home.

Try not to suffocate in the cigarette smoke-filled airtight clubs,

Or allow your eyes to water and burn.

You should be having fun.

This music shouldn’t deafen you.

And finally swallow your frustration,

Hold back your tears.

Try not to reminisce about the sun

Beating down on you,

Which not only soothed you skin

But calmed your entire being.

Don’t mistake the low hum of traffic down the street

For the sound of waves crashing onto the beach.

Try not to long for home when making a home out of a place

That is far from home.


The Room

Your mind is a room;

A tiny airtight crammed room,

You take a step forward and

stumble on the chair in the corner,

Take a step back and trip over the box of

sealed memories beside your bed.

The room is a furnace;

Your clothes cling uncomfortably to your chest,

You could almost drown in the sweat dripping down your forehead.

There are no doors,

just cracked sealed shut windows.

You choke on each breath,

you lungs fill with the dust

you let pile up in every corner.

Can someone open up a damn window,

because i can’t seem to breathe.

You claw at your throat and arms,

you feel the dirt settle on your skin,

try to scrub yourself clean

till your body is painted blood red.

You try to make space but the rusty

chair you throw away is replaced by an even heavier table

or wardrobe,

taking up even more space.

You decide to sweep the filth away but

instead push it gently beneath the welcome mat.

You start to hate the building and its brittle foundation,

How can such a place even exist.

And then you lay down and fall asleep in your unmade bed,

still breathing in the same sooty air,

Thinking that tomorrow you’ll get the chance to clean it all up,

But you don’t.



Wishful Thinking

Sometimes I wish my skin was detachable,

So that I could unzip and step out of it,

Throw it in the washer,

and have it cleanse the

Dirt and muck I have piled up beneath.

Sometimes I wish I could reach

Into my chest and pull out

the knives that have been

Pierced into my heart;

Treat my bruises,

Stitch up my cuts;

It isn’t fun to choke on your own blood.

Sometimes I wish that hope and happiness

Could be bought at a store

Like a 1 dollar water bottle stacked up

Neatly in the freezer.

At least I’d know where to get some,

When my limited supply has ran dry.

Sometimes I wish that confidence

Was a prescription pill that I could

Swallow when my insecurities

start weighing me down,

That could lighten my tongue

When it becomes too heavy to

Carry the weight of its words.

But then i’d probably become an addict.

Sometimes I simply wish for nothing,

For the only remedy to the insanity is

Learning to love the gigantic mess

That I am.




A little Self discovery


There are two sides of me

No, scratch that,

Perhaps there are three.

The first is my favorite,

The woman I aspire to be.

She is somewhat of a wonder woman,

A warrior of the sort,

Headstrong, independent,

wielding her silver tongue like a steel sword,

She who carries the weight of the world on such tiny shoulders,

And with a bulletproof heart nothing can touch her.

Nothing can break her down.

Ladies and gentleman,

Meet the unrealistic part of me.


 Then you have the second,

That hippie wanna-be,

The undomesticated side of me.

She who loves the harsh tang of cigarettes on the tongue,

She who relishes in the sweet sensations

That causes the blood to sing and the vessels to pulsate.

It is the thrills that she seeks,

To live without worry,

Live without care.

Basking in the guilty pleasures.

An unsettled soul in need of salvation

That girl is me.


 But The most common of all is the third self,

That tiny mouse I sometimes become.

She who cowers to the darkest part of my mind,

Questions her worth,

Doubts and doubts until she is folded

Into a tiny ball of uncertainty.

There are words,

Towers of words

Skyscrapers of words

tucked away in her mind

And yet she can’t seem to utter a single one of them.

She who searches for vibrant colors in rigid white walls

And love in the most unlikely places.

She who becomes the cracks and bruises on her skin,

She who falls, and falters and crumbles from within.

That feeble person is also me.

Let it be known,

I have the personality of a messy color palette,

My blues, overlapping the greens

And reds making, yellows and violets .

They say that creation is sometimes messy,

And I am nothing but a chaotic creation.

A fickle child I so often become,

Indecisive and giddy,

One day wanting one thing,

And the next craving another.

My desires change swifter

than the direction of the wind.

So every morning as I wake and  shake

of the haze of the night,

and welcome the glare of the blinding sun,

I ask myself.

Which of my many selves am I going to be today.


Paper, pen and Poetry 💕

The Brooding Poet

Look At You Now

Look at you now,

Tear-stained, dazed and dejected.

Gone are the golden rays and feelings of spring.

Now you search for the remedy

To winters’ merciless sting.

Look at you now,

Reaching for the moon and the stars,

But you do not get too far,

For your ankles are still chained to the ground,

Oh darling when will you fly?

Look at you now,

Glass fragments on the stone cold floor.

The chill arises and settles on your skin,

But you do not budge,

You feel nothing at all.

Look at you now,

You are not fine china,

You do not shatter when you fall,

This fight is not your last

You have not lost it all.

Look at you now

A chipped tea-cup within the perfect set,

Your skies may be murky and grey,

Your Heart pierced; thoughts in disarray.

But you have not lost…

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