Creative Writing, OldVenue

Heartbeat

They say
home is where the heart is
and yet
I can feel mine beating steady in my chest.
Because home is miles away;
it seems years away.
Because home is yesterday,
and now something else is underway
and things,
well things have changed.
I feel as my heart has stretched.
As if it’s wrung out one too many beats,
to keep on living in those same familiar streets.
Okay, yes, I guess,
part of me will always be left,
bereft,
grieving for a time gone by
and a childhood sky,
but I can’t deny
that something’s gone awry
that home isn’t where is my heart is.
That my heart is running free
that my heart disagrees
that my heart what’s to scream
‘the world is where my heart is!’
My heart is reading words in pubs
and so happy that it aches
and doing shots in grubby clubs
and never learning from it’s mistakes.
My heart is wrapped in your arms in a single bed
and my heart has shed a thousand skins
and wished a thousand things
and has never felt more alive
than the day that it arrived
at somewhere that was different
from those same familiar streets.
Since it gave up on the slow, slow beat
of home.
Home is where my heart is from
But maybe not where it belongs.

14/02/2012

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bethanwilliams


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