Home is… 

A valley in autumn

water running, running running down a river

many perceived ends bordering an ocean


ravines tucked behind schools…

hidden pockets of natural beauty you stumble upon to realize the noise of the city has faded away

my friends, the ground floor of our townhouse and that one couch.

 I miss that couch.

Lazy hammock afternoons

crowded cafes; 

empty 

warm and loud

roasted coffee beans, burnt espresso 

Home is…

My favourite seat on the TTC bus; 

Being swallowed up in a winter coat;

My bare feet against the studio floor;

Frigid air

Suffocating heat.

A thin line between a cage and a nest  

It’s a myth that one can only belong to one place

To those who carry

their emotions on their sleeves –

a risk embraced with higher stakes,

fearing mockery by their mates.

It’s a leash around their neck,

an anxious state.

To those brave enough to cry it all out –

their sobs heard by the washroom stalls,

their echoes embedded

in closed doors and brick walls,

their soaked pillows

evident of their daily fall.

To those carefree

who do not stifle their laughs –

their happiness sublime, diffusing afar.

Their dentine emitting rays enlarged,

spreading warmth and hope

that there’s peace after this war. 

To those who battle

and yet do not show

the scars they endured,

the pain they secured,

wearing medals of survival

around their throats.

To those who are asked

as to why do they hold

such feelings inside,

as to why their soul is so fragile?

Are their hearts not made

of the same strength, tensile?

To those dictated

to peel off their selves, 

to dissect their beings

into someone green,

their bodies uniformly painted

by societal screens.

Pray, stay true

to this human in you,

for your emotions are at home

and so are you.

To roam your streets, Toronto

reflected against your glass doors
my pain shimmers
and I

forget myself

on your icy paths
Where does adventure stop, and danger start?
I rented you.
my movie
ended

like a lucid dream

Wishful driving in the wake of..
tomorrow morning
in a stranger’s car
I’ll leave. 

For the streets
of Scarborough
where all my scars are burrowed 
and borrowed
where the coffee is poor
and my heart pumps fear;
where I am trapped in light
lost without a fight
holding on too tight
to the terror of familiarity.
Mine to simmer in.
It wasn’t your fault,
Oh smell of home,

my disregarded poem.