I Am Home

I am home to the cricks of the rickets,
To the twisted little deformities,
To the brittle old realities,
Maybe to break them or with them.
I am home.

I am home to the howling winds of summer,
To the boiling rage of serenity,
To the hell fires of eternity,
Maybe to be burned or to burn.
I am home.

I am home to the tears of the Devil,
To the soothing power of cruelty,
To the delightful mockery of chastity,
Maybe to be deceived or to deceive.
I am home.

I am home to the incarcerations of a painter,
To the backstabbers of anonymity,
To the blistering egos of creativity,
Maybe to survive or don't let them survive.
I am home.

I am home,
And maybe this time I am going to do something about it.