Down the road, across the universe,
my body goes, and I stay.
My heart aches to belong here.
It urges my lust for nostalgia.
But The nuance of this notion,
lacks the lustre it once had.
For me, all that glitters is gone.
The silver lining, has faded.
Why would I yearn for such an obvious detriment?
Why do I make my bed in a place I wish not to lay?
I always thought this was my home.
But I know that home isn’t here or there.
Home is where you make it.
It’s the place you became the person you were meant to be.
It’s not the echo against walls closing in on you.
It’s not the place where you bury yourself in a crowd of a thousand dirty faces.
This place, I’ve called home,
Only tightens my grip on the coat tails of the past.
It steps on the toes of my future.
It laughs in the face of hope.
That’s just it.
Home is not a place at all.
It’s a feeling.
Home is inside of us.
And I’ve always looked for it in the wrong places.
I’ve always Looked behind to find nothing but shadows of doubt.
It’s time I look ahead.
It’s time to find my place, my home.
I will find it,
And that’s where I’ll always be.