What it means to be home.

​What does it mean to be home for you?

For me, when people ask me where I’m from, I pause and think about what to say. “I was born in PA but I grew up in Florida,” is my generalized answer. 

I spent majority of my short life in the south but I have some of the deepest connections in Pennsylvania. 

The truth is, I’m more at home in the woods or near the ocean, then in any four walls. Home has never been somewhere that confines me but in whatever gives me the freedom to experience the world around me. 

It’s in the smell of dirt after it rains. And the sound it makes on the roof of my porch.

It’s in the changing colors of a sunset. The peaceful calm I experience gazing at rolling blue mountains, as far as I can see.

It’s in the roaring tide repeatedly hitting the shore. The pelican perched on a banister, people watching with his beady eyes.

It’s in a well played set. A guitar riff that urges me to move my hips and forget everything else. 

It’s in the unknown on an open road to my next adventure.

It’s experiencing somewhere new with someone new. It’s deep conversation with a stranger.

It’s laughs and streaming tears shared with the people who know me best. 

It’s in the arms that have made me feel safe. The company of lovers who gave me their time, their affection and their hearts.

It’s the bubbling conversations over a well prepared meal. 

Home is in the connections stitched into my skin, the experiences that taught me something about myself and the questions I have not yet to ask. 

Home is wherever I am.
PC: @tilldeathdousparty


I miss him. [Poem]

I miss him.

I know, my heart gently whispered.

His voice.

His thoughts and support.

I miss hearing about his day, each night.

It’s alright love, he knows.

There’s nothing left to do but live.

And let go.

Don’t hide from yourself. [Poem]

I truly believe that we are alive
To feel.
To feel connected.
To feel love, and be loved in return.
To feel fulfilled.
To feel every dark, weathered corner inside of ourselves.

When we don’t allow ourselves the courtesy of listening to what we need.
When we love selfishly and without understanding of our own depths, we create chaos.
In our hearts, in our lives, and in our mind.
There’s no peace.

No matter the reason.

Self-preservation – a need to be free from further pain.
You can’t hide from yourself.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
You can’t deny what is true and possibly ugly, just because you are afraid of change.

It doesn’t work that way.
It will surface and be unrecognizable.
It will only tarnish your soul and rob you of the happiness you so longingly deserve.
Until you stand the fuck up, and face yourself.
Be brave.

It will hurt.
It will feel like you are drowning,
Like there isn’t enough oxygen in the air to fill your lungs,
But you’re worth it.

You are worth every salty, uncontrollable ache,
And every time you get caught out in the rain.

You are worthy of your own happiness
And every authentic thing you discover about yourself,
And the beauty after, your self imposed fog lifts.

So stop running from yourself,
And feel,
It is why you’re alive, after all.

Growin’ up in the Fake South! [Poem]

Water will always feel like home.
Dreams of living among the fish
And mermaids.
Memories of sun burnt skin.
Buying aloe lotion in bulk.
Living outside,
Barefoot in the sand.
Dolphins jumping along the horizon.
Tromping through the mangroves.
Mud caked clothes.
Discounted rum, at the beach filled up
Most summer days.
Complaining about the tourists and traffic.
Top down, in someone’s car.
Eighties metal,
Infamy, or better dayz blaring.
Geckos, alligators, and turtles,
A common sight.
Hurricane parties and clean ups.
Soothing sounds of thunderstorms.
Laying in the warm gulf,
As herons poke along behind.
memories of
growing up in the fake south.