These Home Introspection poems are examples of Introspection poems about Home. These are the best examples of Home Introspection poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
I’m looking at an old house
Called home by someone
I will look at any old house new or old but
Home is ALWAYS an old house
Old people open doors
Walk the floors
Old people light the candles
Decorate the mantles
And the roof ever slants
So young thoughts may go
Sliding down to settle on ground
In front of home
Rain or snow
Home is ever warmed
By timeless ghosts
Of hearth reborn
I’m climbing the stairs of an old house
Called home by someone
To open a door
Find stairs and climb some more
To follow the footsteps of some vague someone
In an old house called home
While walking through a hospital one day, a veteran I did see
He was in a wheelchair with both legs missing, and he did it for you and me.
I turned around a corner and down another hall
Only for my eyes to behold a family who has lost it all
A five year old cried out,"Why did daddy have to die?"
The mother held her son closer while she greived and began to cry
The mother of that young Marine, who had fought over in Iraqu
Wandered why her son so brave, didn't survive the enemie's attack
The father of that soldier, hung his head to cry
He was a retired soldier himself, why couldn't he have been the one to die?
His heart broken sister, sits in shock and tries to deny
The death of her older brother, he was killed and don't know why
A few days later, a family, everybody all dressed in black
Went to the funeral of a twenty-five year old who too our bullet in Iraq
The Bible says "thou shalt not kill." and "Love your neighbor" too
Maybe our soldiers aren't doing what's right, but they still take your bullet for you
They sleep in foxholes, and eat in trenches, and do all that they know to do
They rest in the sand with no comforts of home and they take your bullet for you
The restless nights turn into days, you wouldn't believe all they go through
THe rest of us sit at home and gripe, and still they take your bullet for you
The next time you hear a 21 gun salute, don't condemn as others do
The next time the taps are being played, remember, they took that bullet for you.
Thanks, Veterans for your sacrifice.
The path leading home is a narrow road
More so if you do not know the way.
The burden of many years a heavy load
As mirages of memories dance and sway.
I teeter on yesterday's sheer abyss
Avoiding the solid boulders of time.
Afraid that unknown turn-offs I'll miss
For yesterday's roads have no reason or rhyme.
The road back home moves over treacherous terrain
Winding through the lonely corridors of my heart.
Black crows keep pecking at my sickly brain
As the descent into yesterday rips me apart.
The road back home is desolate and bare
The landscape so foreign and unknown.
Easy to lose my way,easy not to care
For yesterday's promises are tossed and blown.
The road leading home is one of defeat
A journey searching for fragments of me.
For reality can simply not compete
With the illusions I call my memory.
Home is where the heart is, so they say,
Between self and heart lies many years.
The heavy toll simply too much to pay
For the way back home is obscured by tears.
Emptiness inside my soul is all that fills the space.
If you look, that's what you'll see in the lines upon my face.
I walked the other side of town just to be your clown.
Left me standing all alone with my world turned upside down.
Back home blues with worn out shoes.
Looking for a sign.
No more abuse, I just refuse.
To give you what is mine.
This bitter pill of exctasy that's twisted me up tight.
Left a taste of lovely waste with no new love in sight.
I hear the clock, I hear the clock, ticking out the days.
With only one dream left to spend and hoping that it pays.
I've been through this a time or two.
It's never any fun.
When love is gone, that's it, we're through.
And nobody has won.
Take me back where I don't care bout grown up things like this.
Back where my heart didn't have to know bout what it didn't miss.
But that's just foolish hopefulness revereing what's been lost.
An empty pocket, lonely soul, that can't afford the cost.
A cousin called the other day saying "Another cousin has passed away".
Well my husband said "How old was she.""
A stalwart woman who had served family and community well. Producing one child that
became a missionary serving in a foreign land..
While talking the cousin asked "Did you know ______"?
My husband answered, "Well, I don't think that I knew them".
The cousin proceeded to tale this story.
"The man had been down with cancer for a while and passed recently..The funeral had been
conducted and the hearse had gone on to the cemetary..The family car with the family was
not to far behind..But when it pulled up, the wife of the deceased did not get out and the
funeral home staff was gathering around..The funeral home director decided to go see what
was going on ...."
The cousin said, " That this funeral home director told him". "That he had been in this
business for thirty-five years and faced something that he had never had happen to him or
any other funeral home director that he knew."
The funeral home director said, "When I got to the family car, I found the wife of the
deceased had passed from a massive corornary."
She had said, "I don't know how I will live without him." She didn't have to learn. God called
The roosters crow, the crows craw and are answered by the gobble of the turkey across the
The wind did stir the thought in kind wanting - for if she knew my soul, just a spark
of it, I would be a rich man...
So long this ribbon of love that flows over the rocks of age and distant torment...
The gate keepers sit alone watching, waiting for the violators who dare not call
It is those shackles which bind misguided dreams that which make fertile ground for
the barkers at the door, for what else does one need to grey the vision and dull
You carry the scent of the well-traveled said the withered old man - I too know your
pain, that which comes from never knowing home - those of us who seek blindly
that which the world cannot give - home is not a place but a thought in time and
nothing more than a stop to rest your ambition...
Cry only for only those who cannot hear you, for it is selfish to do otherwise and
seek home in the gentle embraces of those that know you...
Be kind to those who would bite you, for in doing so it will bring light to a dark path...
Always rejoice in life - it pisses them off and helps them to see the tragic flaw of
their diluted beliefs...
God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.
Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical,
that there must be death before birth
My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.
I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone
My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.
My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.
The Beach of Promises
Fingers entwined, barely touching,
turquoise waters teasing your dancing toes,
strolling along that serene deserted beach,
our promised dreams within aching reach.
Hands clasped, holding on,
sea-breezes tickling the nape of your neck,
walking together, alone, vowing to never breach,
the dreams dreamed on that faraway velvet beach.
Hands in my pockets, alone,
traces of you linger, teasing,
lost in my scribbles, your memory fading out of reach,
my thoughts ablaze, now and then,
catching a whiff of your fragrance,
wafting through alleyways of nostalgia,
your hand in mine on our pristine beach.
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
P aranoia permeates, etching itself into your fractured face,
A cacophony of constant pressure; life remains a stressful race,
N othing to hope for, no positives like promotion in the workplace,
I nability to love, relationships lift anchor and set sail without chase,
C hildren crushing dreams under mortgages; age grows with disgrace