12 String Dreams Journal
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Somewhere in Wyoming
Normally I sit down and write words, wishes, dreams, and
abstract thoughts. I sit here now, somewhere in Wyoming
wishing only to hold you tight. The words become blurry as
the shaken lines combine to create the words that I write
to you from so many miles away.
I'm haunted by a repeating thought. It echos through my
mind and heart, eating at my soul. Turning tears into
smiles and smiles into tears. Reminding me now , all those
things I'd forgotten or ignored. Teaching me those things I
refused to learn now long to be taught.
I'm Coming Home....
For as long as I remember, home has been a word, an idea I
could not grasp, a thought that only crossed my mind. Never
lingering long enough to influence, Home sweet home were
words that appeared on a welcome mat or painted on a plaque
hanging on someone else's wall.
It took being a thousand miles closer then the north pole
for me to realize you've made my home. You've made the
place I long to be and a place I never want to leave.
Funny, I understand what they mean when they say "Home is
where the heart is."
I'm Going Home....
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