I’m homeward bound, the train is taking me
To my home town, through the worm hole
Is it time travel? Or just a figment of my fantasy?
Still I run into the arms of my comfort zone
A change of plans? It was all too new
So I rested for the moment, turned back went to bed
If only there was a mattress, a bedside lamp
A carpet and a kitchen
So under furnished is my home, a plain cold hall with a large glass wall
My body feels draped in fleece pyjamas
It may not be where I sleep and where I dream
But in this house life is a dream, but by 5 oclock I have to leave
How could you wake me? Don’t you see me?
This house I built around this square under my feet?
I’m sitting on an armchair, mug in my hand
I could swear I felt my hand run over my cat
Or is it all in my head? I know I have a house somewhere
Is it here or is it there? I’m going home I think
But leaving home. I left my heart on that square where I stood
It forever beats in the cold hall with the glass wall
Maybe that’s why I’m always so delirious
When I see that face and hear that sound
It calls to me sometimes, I miss it sorely
Homeward bound yes again. The train tracks carry me to through the worm hole
Whether through space, time or emotion
I will land safely in my happy place

I feel as if there is a seed that was planted in all of us to search for definition, whether it be of self or of anything else, but search for definition none the less.
As if the things that provide the worth are even there, and not ever more present in the distance of two individual selfs.
As the past would show us, even in its weakest state, it is still distance that determines who is what.
It's so easy to forget that it's believed we spend our time searching for things, when really we're just trying to find where they begin.
Even though beginnings in themselves are easy to find since there so many of them, almost none of them are the same.
This also is why they are frightening; because there has never been anything in humanity's existence that is more terrifying than uncertainty, and finding a lack of, in places that were once full.

Everything turns into:
"There was so much here, and now there is nothing."

Eventually, you start to only think about the specifics in life that were absent from you, and you even try to remeber things you know were never there.
This happens to everyone at some point, and most never understand it when it does.
And at best, you learn to not see people as a place to go.

my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.

walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was  a comforter:
demons were embedded.

yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?

one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance

"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams

it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding

If you are uncomfortable when you look in the mirror,
keep in mind:
We spent thousands of years
trying to convince the earth
she was flat.

We wrote her maps as evidence of the things we saw;
and she believed them.
She cried tsunamis, and had earthquake breakdowns.

Keep in mind: the Sun never gave up hope.
The earth will keep spinning and breathing
the star-dusty space void of encouragement.

Next time you look in the mirror
and second-guess your potential divinity,
remember you will keep shining and living.

Because the Sun is out there
believing in you,
compensating for lack of the human capacity
to treat each other empathically.

You don’t need proof or approval
to be exactly what you are;
Eventually everyone will see
your infinite beauty.

the boys of summer were vast and many
they were long distance and down the road
they were temporary as they always are
but permanent in their scars
the one on my leg and the ones in my heart
none were deep just little scrapes
barely drawing blood
the boys of summer don’t bring pain
just stinging when they’re gone

I'm in love with someone's daughter
living in the shards of a broken home
Cutting herself on two year-old letters
These are moments she can't fake;
reasons to feel alone
So used to abuse, her tears start to shake
I hold her close as her head starts to ache
"I love you too much,
so I can't let your heart break."
She said, "I know you love me,
but you've made a mistake."

I never meant for anyone to be my pulse.
I promise not to step on your feet
if you teach me how to waltz.