Home is not the concrete construct
where your mother resides
and your father returns to
It is not the land
your passport claims you belong to

Home is a state of mind
the environment you miss the most
when you live in a foreign land

Home may not be where you were born
but it may be the land
where your heart was first torn
where you first set foot in a classroom
and found your first crush

The place where you know the slang
a little too well
for your parents’ liking
Where you can get lost
and still be at ease
You know the streets
like the back of your hand

It is a place you complained of
when you knew no better
but when you left
you wished you left a letter
to show your gratitude
all the things you took for granted
that you couldn’t find
in the place your parents call home
in another place that you now call home

The smells, the tastes
the sounds and the sights
The faces that passed
as the years went by
you wish you could keep
in a little box in your heart
carry it around and open it
when you can take no more
You need to feel at home once more.


Shadow Theater

It’s furtive isn’t it?

The games they play

the things they think

went unseen, but were felt

It’s a mockery of ourselves

lying in shambles

the poverty of our minds

lies cradled in jest

the blindfolds we refuse to remove

the shackles we forged the locks for

do you not see it is a masterpiece

a script for a shadow theater

figures dancing, spinning,

then slowing, wavering

it’s a portrait of danger

A tableaux of doom.