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1
Home. i've been thinking about it a lot this week. i miss it. i want to go home.
But i got to thinking, i got to wondering what home actually is. What is it i actually miss?
And i came to realise that home is not a place for me anymore. Maybe it never was. Home is not Prestwick, it's not Peterhead. It's none and it's both. It's nowhere in between. At its simplest level, home is about love. Home is filled with family and friends, with compassion and warmth, with laughter and fun, with an openness and a vulnerable honesty. With love. Home is filled with love.
But home is also something more.
Home, in the end, is the ultimate promise of an eternal life with a loving, powerful God.
But God has created us and chosen us where we are, put us on this earth for a reason, and surely, then, home must be here somewhere too.
And i got to thinking that maybe that's what it's all about. Home is not about yesterday, about some memory of the past. Home is about tomorrow and the future hope we have. But, more than that, home is about now. Home is here. It's the present. It's today.
Home is today, whatever it may hold.
Home is today whether you're crying on a bathroom floor with a mouth full of pills and a hand full of blades. Home is today whether you're sitting in summer parks sharing stories about church and Jesus and life and God. Home is today whether you're lying on your back under African stars surrounded by 200 children who all know your name. No matter what, home is today.
Home is here and now. Home is what matters. Home is what deserves our attention and our love, because, in the end, what else have we really got?
Home is today and home, therefore, is something i'll always have.
[11/2/08]
2
Listen. Put your ear to the ground. Hear the sound. Hear it. Hear my story. Hear my cry.
Hear it in my silence. Hear it in the hidden corners; faces buried, hair falling, hood up. Hear it in the make-believe tear stains, the black mascara diagrams running down my cheeks. Hear it in my band-name t-shirts, in my skin-tight jeans and tight-zipped lips. Hear it in my despondence, in my solitude, in my darkened bedroom door. Hear it in my razor blade store, in my criss-crossed arms and rose-petal stripes. Hear it. Hear my story. Hear my cry.
Hear it in my rages. Hear it in my outbursts and my violence. Hear it in my war-torn househould and my family-bound roars. Hear it in my kicking and my punches - in my wordless screams. Hear it in my anger-bubbling veins and the fury buried behind my gaze. Hear it in my broken window, in my grafitti-plastered streets. Hear it in my bleeding nose and their black-bruised eyes. Hear it. Hear my story. Hear my cry.
Hear it in my party style. Hear it in my nightclub-dance and pounding beats. Hear it in my sweat-soaked clothes, my blinking eyes and flashing lights. Hear it in the pills we pop, in the drinks we down, in my fallen stupor on the ground. Hear it in my empty-bottle mountains and my taxi-lost phones. Hear it in my senseless slur and my bleary eyes. Hear it. Hear my story. Hear my cry.
Hear it in my relationship state. Hear it in my interlinked hands and glancing eyes. Hear it in my paint-covered face, in my perfume smell and too-short style. Hear it in my hungry kisses and wandering hands. Hear in my partner-a-day life and my senseless experiments. Hear it in my floor-strewn skirt and my rough-torn pants. Hear it in my closeness, in my passion, in my drive. Hear it. Hear my story. Hear my cry.
Hear it in our culture. Hear it in our gangs. Hear it in our music-style, our suicides, our friends. Hear it in the clothes we wear, hear it on our streets. Hear it in our bedrooms, hear between our sheets. Hear it in our classrooms, hear it in our clubs, hear it in our houses, hear it in our love. Hear it in our outstretched hands, hear it in our fights. Listen to our story. Hear it. Hear our cry.
[08/12/07]
3
| Change - The ebb and flow of tides Malnourished of continuity, Washed up on shores etched With regression and Primitive displays of injustice - Life for a lie, Truth for a Tortuous stream of tears Cried by a hurting generation Of painted smiles And plastic faces, Masking the struggling inhibition Of youth ready for transformation, Drowning in a societal sea Of forward-marching conformity And all-encompassing despair; Lost like the hope of A newly sprung stream - Flowing - Yet soon dried out by Progress. [26/9/07] |
| Swallowing razor blades in the dark, Trying to throw daggers with her words, Weaving webs of lies To gain the attention of someone, Anyone. Living in a world of fairy dust, Trying to heal wounds with all its magic, Dreaming blue-winged friends To feel less on her own, Alone. Choking on crystal tears, Trying to release depressions deep within, Painting fake-smile sparkles To disguise the sadness, The pain. Carving poetry on her flesh, Trying to create beauty, if nothing else, Bleeding crimson rivers To test that she's alive, Undead. [22/9/04] |
| Hey little girl With the beaded blonde hair Where were the people When life was unfair? When you drowned all your sorrows In bottles of beer And drank till your body Was poisoned. Hey little girl With the gothic black coat Where was your mum When you needed her most? When you sat with your fingers Choking your throat Convincing yourself That you're ugly. Hey little girl With the eyes full of stars Where were they all Whilst you fell in the dark? When you played with a razor Leaving a mark That matched with the pain Kept inside you. Hey little girl In the pretty red dress Where were your friends During times of distress? When you lay yourself down On a bed, to undress For any who made You feel wanted. Hey little girl With the tears in your eyes Where were your loves When you wanted to die? When you sat with your hands Cupped, facing the sky Praying for someone To save you. Hey little girl With the ghostly pale head Everyone's here Now you're finally dead. Pills in your hand, Stone cold on your bed Their sadness too late For your rescue. [20/9/04] |
| The mood ring on my finger gives no hint towards my tone So I wear it like a wedding ring, to prove I feel alone, The clothes I choose to dress in fail to show my disposition But I wear them fit to drown in, not to feel like I am threatened. My tears would smudge my make-up, if I painted pure my face So I wear my smile like face paint & make gladness my facade, The fairy on my necklace would suggest I'm immature But I wear it to elate myself when life becomes a chore. The bracelets round my wrists seem to indicate I'm weird So I wear them far more often to look brave beyond my fears, The socks extended to my knees assert an air of "cool" But I wear them artificially to hide proof that I'm a fool. The hearts I tattoo on my hand suggest a need for intimacy So I wear them as a symbol of my needy vulnerability, The bag I carry on my back has certified I'm strong But I wear it like the baggage of a life that's almost gone. The silky scarf upon my neck has proven that I'm classy So I wear it as replacement for a rope, when life is crappy, The wand I pinned upon my belt says I'm like a child & weak But I wear it as my evidence - I've grown beyond defeat. |
| Perhaps it would be better if I vanished So that everything I touch would not be blemished By the evil from the roots within my heart And the dirt within my sickened mind of dark. Perhaps it would be better if I left And stopped harrassing those who have been blessed With happiness I costantly destroy By playing with their lives like they were toys. Perhaps it would be better if I died And left behind all those who have survived The torture of my presence in their life - The pain, the grief, the anguish and the strife. Perhaps it would be better here for all, Were I to hurry up and take my fall And leave them all alone with those they love While, lovingly, I watch them from above. [4/8/04] |