The pores of four walls

You can go home again,

to the place that houses your youth.

But don’t forget 

the memories you made.

They are folded away,

hidden in cubby holes,

permeating the walls.

They will whisper to you 

in the quietness of the night.

You reach out for comfort

but beside you is only emptiness,

you need to remember 

that is how it is now.

You can go home again                          

but how can you truly feel it

when you made your home 

in someone else?

Why I don’t write more poetry

I had a completely different post planned for today but yesterday, whilst I was trying focus on my novel and working on finishing chapter 3 I found myself feeling disconnected from what I was working on. I figured it was a little useless to try to force myself to continue as it would only lead to heavy editing later on so I opened up a new word document and decided to write something that better expressed how I felt in that moment. The past few months have been strange for me, despite living here for just over 6 months now it feels somewhat closer to a year. Without getting into too many details about my personal life, a lot has happened that threw me into a bit of inner turmoil and now I am reaching the point where I am okay with processing my feelings because it always takes me a long, long, long time to feel things truly.

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