never one particular place,
nor a slab of concrete,
or four painted tope walls.
not a kitchen or an island counter top.
no, home for me was never a particular place.
this probably sounds sad;
another broken childhood,
probably accompanied by a million others,
but it's not.
home is the arms that made it all make sense.
family,
that wasn't always blood.
where i found stability, laughter and my soul,
and the person i always wanted to be.
and now,
in his eyes,
i feel that same stillness,
and i see those four painted walls,
with green chairs and a record room,
and it looks like a home.
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