Sunday, April 08, 2007

Home - A song I just wrote

It’s obvious,
I’ve overstayed my welcome,
I’m sorry that I’m such a nuisance,
And in a few months,
I’ll go.
I’ll be gone,
Who knows if I’ll come back,
If I don’t,
The notice of my absence,
You would lack.
Maybe I’ll never come back,
I’ll never come back home.

But where is home?
What is home?
Who is home?
I no longer know this.
It seems as though I don’t belong,
In what I once called home.
But home could be anywhere,
Home is a place where one is loved,
Where one will fit in,
Home is a feeling of security,
And being surrounded by loved ones constantly.
Where is my home?
What is my home?
Who is my home?

Where is my home?
Where do I belong?


Sensing more hate than love,
Don’t worry,
In a few months you’ll get what you want,
I'll be gone.
The “I can’t believe you” child
will no longer be around,
So you’ll no longer have someone in the family,
That you are ashamed of.
You'll have the perfect family,
That you always dreamed of.
You won’t have me to “deal with” anymore,
I’ll do you a favor,
I won’t come back,
I'll never come back home.

But where is home?
What is home?
Who is home?
I no longer know this.
It seems as though I don’t belong,
In what I once called home.
But home could be anywhere,
Home is a place where one is loved,
Where one will fit in,
Home is a feeling of security,
And being surrounded by loved ones constantly.
Where is my home?
What is my home?
Who is my home?

Where is my home?
Where do I belong?

Where do I belong?
Where do I belong?
I guess it’s on the road,
Because it’s never been home.

2 comments:

  1. searching, the creases like branches of trees
    hallow existence, leafless, inhaling the secrets
    a wandering of the soul, wondering how to bestow
    the world upon the fractured home
    something that we're attempting to hold
    in hands so frail, fragile and courious in our tale
    telling stories of past worlds fed
    remembering the unsaid
    home is trapped in the head
    home is an establishment of tire tread
    gripping the lines, and hugging the curves
    driving at speeds, excessive, for the turns
    now tide tries, as we reside, inside the mind
    of turmoil and buried soil
    dust in the wind
    with that traveling hand
    its a marked man, a forever brand.

    ~Hopeing to help with hands so frail.

    Love,
    Digress.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Home is when you are all alone.
    Home is in your head.

    Hope your okay.

    ReplyDelete