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Home Is Myself

long ago
i was unwanted
grandpa
never praised me
though i worked
hard
even for
one word, perhaps

love or
even a pat on my shoulder
which i never
really had

papa i remember
bought me
a toy chopper
but that was just
once

he was not drunk
when he played with me
in the garden

when you feel unwanted
you do not
have friends
you have nothing good to say

it was early
for me to learn that
dying can be good

i never speak to anyone
about it

i only speak to myself
because i have
no choice

i love isolation
it becomes a way of life

never had a best friend
never had a circle of
friends

as a matter of consequence
i become too independent
complete in myself
and had always been
a survivor

despair is an everyday word
so i was no longer
afraid.

today people want me
call me by my name
and praise me, but

it is too late then
i do not need it anymore

when grandpa died all those near me
cried and mourned for days

i keep my usual distance
wear my tinted sunglasses
and walk myself
all alone back home

home is myself
my heart.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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