Home is my feet bare

and my heart elated

as I climb

higher and higher.

Pushing through the ivy

until I reach the final opening.

A seven year old heart

on top of the world

as she reaches the

thinnest branches.

Home is my mother’s arms,

comforting and warm,

holding me as I sob.

Yearning for a smile

but patient with my tears.

As the demons in my dreams

deprive me of sleep

she leaves room in her bed.

My mother,

face aging from sleepless nights,

tears away my demons.

Home is the field

and the power it holds.

Where worries quiet themselves

and clenched fists begin to rest.

Each teammate,

bodies trained for discipline,

encourages one another through the pain.

Hands held like waffles

as the team prays for strength.

The ground is pierced by my cleats

as I sprint to win my only


Home is the rain I dance under.

The girl, still just a child,

dances away her heartache

under the crying sky.

Each splash a symbol of joy

while I, smiling and giggling,

celebrate my home.

Poetry Reading: 


No reviews yet.