12 Poem by Riley Choma


This time last year I packed a suitcase.
I packed like my scenery was about to change for a weekend- but my weekend has lasted 365 days and counting.
My head has been laid to rest on more couches than can be counted on one hand; 365 divided by 30.
One move per month for a total of 12- 12 changes of scenery.

At first I suppose it was almost fun.
I have never been one to sit idle- never one to accept boredom as a state of being.
However when I said surfing would be fun, couchsurfing is not quite what I meant.

I am still living out of a suitcase and everyone keeps telling me that it will get easier.
But how could they possibly know?
They haven't been where I've been.
They haven't wanted to go home but not had one.
They don't know what it's like to fill out forms and get confused when you reach the address line.
And they most certainly don't know what it's like to live in a suitcase.

Last year I was in highschool with my whole life in front of me- but now I am in life with all of that behind me.
I use to have hopes- even dreams.
However, now, I can hardly decide what I want for lunch; every simple choice is a stressful predicament.
My life is out of order, priorities mixed- non existent.
This stage of life is perpetual but always new, it's called making due.

Sunday, April 9, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: homelessness
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