I'm going "home" for Thanksgiving break.
But I honestly don't know
where the hell that is.
Home is not the small town
in East Jesus Nowhere
where I went to school,
or the quaint little neighborhood
where I fell off my bike
and never got back on.
It's not the white house with green shutters
that my parents bought when I was two,
where I have technally lived for the past sixteen years.
Yes, I grew up there,
but it's not home.
Not anymore.
I escaped that place three months ago
and found a new place to call "home."
But I suppose it's really hard to feel at home
in a place where you have to leave your flip-flops on to shower.
At this point,
I'm just trying to figure out what counts as "home"
and where I can find it.
I don't know if it's a place
or a person
or a feeling,
but whatever it is,
I crave it like a starving man craves food.

I guess you don't have to be poor
to be homeless.

For once I'll cut the language play
in favor of getting to the bottom and being outright
Forthright with the motions behind
two eyes, emotions and notions like wind at seaside
Sure words work and we can know
because words hurt
words save and alleviate
Been twisting words more than a decade on
but when I stop and think what actually have I done?
Nothing much, just talk, speak, write
Once did and still want to be a novelist
and if I can learn to multitask at the keys I might
but as it stands, the wheels spin forever in the parking lot
only accomplished in the close-up shot
and when backing up the facade crumbles all on its own
then as quick as the pretense rose, I have no home
night is cold without the future wrapped around
the curves to which you're devout
the future slips slippery forever
whoops!
accident again and it's gone
that last shred of impetus keeping me strong
what if there's meaning though in the steps that I walk?
what if my mistakes raked up fuel the others who don't belong?
maybe being me means just rolling the dice
I haven't died or taken a life so maybe I'm doing all right
let these missteps and hiccups lead not to backspace
but fill the heads full of that black shrouded beast
with what earnestness I have
so that in hopes, though, perhaps vain
I might smudge the pain so that
when you look in the mirror while you eat the pills
and see your shadow looming in grinning and licking your ear
the shadows don't make it that far and fade into light

I don't know