love · mental health · poem · poetry · prose · recovery

Homecoming

I was homesick.

But not for our home. Not for the couch or the bed or the mess of living that is unique to it.

I was homesick for you.

For the glimmer of your eyes on a laugh. The confident way you touch me. The stability of your presence.

I was homesick for you.

For the casual way you tear down my walls. The way you challenge me to be better. The easy way you love me. The way you make it seem easy to love me.

I was homesick for you.

How happy I am to be home again.

daily prompt · love · mental health · poem · poetry · recovery · travel

see ya depression

Well this is awkward…
You caught me with my mask off.
Sun-kissed wind caress,
face exploding in a soft
laugh, forgetting the mess
of daily life.

Well this is awkward…
I forgot to care about you this morning.
Blinded by free happiness
and forgot I’m in mourning,
but I just don’t miss
you.

I think I’d rather love myself instead.

{via daily prompt}

love · mental health · poem · poetry · recovery · travel

here

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There are parts of my heart
scattered in each place I’ve been.
You see, travel does this funny thing.
It reminds you of the complexities in this world.
Cobbled streets lead to collosal castles
streets sprinkled in sorrow,
history and happiness too.
There’s nothing I would rather do.

Human connection is the aspect of adventure
that lives in the heart of each traveller.
The appreciation of beauty that notices
this door is closed but damn, it’s beautiful.
What lesson can be learned here?
That the little joys of life appear
in the middle of something unexpected?
I love that.

Travel is something I hold dear,
And you will always find a piece of my heart

here.

daily prompt · love · mental health · poem · poetry · recovery · travel

warning bells

i am trying to explain flashbacks to you without sounding ludicrous.
it doesn’t matter this was years ago.
it doesn’t matter that it could have been worse.
the terror lies partly in those coulds,
the insidious possibilities that stole my safety from me.

i don’t know how to explain that i know it’s not helpful.
my panic. my overabundance of caution.
the gnawing reminder that the security of home is merely
an illusion.

i am trying to imagine your response when i tell you
i hold these flashbacks in one hand and positivity in another.
these new traits that cracked my soul and let empathy out.
these memories that finetuned the strings of my street-smarts.

the warning bells might never go away.
and i’m trying to envision how you might
love that part of me too.

{via daily prompt}

daily prompt · love · mental health · poem · poetry · recovery · travel

Like a passport

Who defines the line between foreign and domestic?
Where is the threshold between what is new and what is familiar?
Big men in big houses pick the box in which I fit
Their ambitions pulling the trigger on the gun that
decides if I am allowed to enter.

Like a passport I hold the signs of borders forced upon me
Signs that maintain separation from my neighbours.
My spine worn from the whiplash of being open
stamped
and returned to me.
Whose job is it to determine my worth for entry?

Now I collect stamps with pride.
I’m not the six year old who folded in on herself
after learning her body was not a safe place.
Big men in big houses be damned, I am a miracle
holding a worn spine but still standing.

I define whose stamps adorn me now.

{daily prompt: foreign}floral1