“Oh Lord, I’ve had enough of these people,”
I say as I ponder the definition of a home.
Perhaps it’s a flickering bulb that my father has yet to change,
Or maybe it’s the nights when my mom isn’t there.
The emptiness of my home has become familiar,
Outside, smoke tends to linger.
Where else am I supposed to go?
When my own house doesn’t feel like home.
I found a cathedral on one of my walks,
The marble drew my attention, and I had to stop.
The stained glass reminds me of the shards that make up my home,
However, it feels more welcoming, as if I wasn’t alone.
I’ve never been religious, but I felt drawn inside.
I push open the wooden doors and step off the curbside.
A tall man stood behind a pulpit, book in hand,
He preached words to the people that they seemed to understand.
I sat in one of the pews in the far back,
The atmosphere was welcoming and happy, which my home lacked.
I listened to his words and began to realize,
I have control over my life, and this didn’t have to be my demise.
I walk up to the altar and fall to my knees;
The grip of my hands together will not ease,
He gazed upon me with warmth and took my hand.
He spoke words that made me begin to understand.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be the place I reside,
Perhaps it just has to be where my negative emotions subside.
My house can be a community that I can call my own.
In this chapel, I found my home.