Home is where

This speaks to me on a spiritual level every time I pass this sign on my campus.

So being myself I wrote a poem about it:



I built an entire city out of paper.

I made a village for earthworms in my backyard. 


I never realized how obsessed with building I was.

How obsessed with creating places for things to live.

I remember how my little brother and I used to dominate the living room on weekends

with forts crafted from pillows and blankets


And it didn’t matter that we couldn’t sit up straight in them

It didn’t matter that we could only see the TV out of a little hole

It didn’t matter that they fell down each night while we slept

It just mattered that it was ours


I wonder why I always felt the need to make homes.

I wonder why my writing is my newest way to do so

I have always felt somewhat displaced,

constructing a space for myself out of metaphors

and fitting myself in between pages

using soft words as new pillows for my fort.

It does not matter that I watch them fall down each night around me

It does not matter that I cannot sit up straight in them.




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