H.J. Shreeve (26/5/1987 / Hobart, Tasmania)
It always rains in my hometown,
The clouds are kind enough to wash what they can away
The town cut out my tongue,
It grew back sharper and quicker than the one they stole.
I walk by the river,
Still black from the ones it took,
When my thoughts fall upon a deaf ear,
I begin to whisper.
This is my home.
I care little for your Tupperware regime,
I care little for your barbecue tyranny,
One should always give way to real men.
Home, is where the heart is.
The fruit, plentiful,
It decays in the street,
By the grocer, by the police station,
By the school that keeps 'em comin'.
A species of their own, that Ritalin race.
At noon the fog lifts,
At two it sets again,
I do breakfast at four,
It is the most important meal of the day.
Comments about this poem (Home by H.J. Shreeve )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings