Not everyone is in.

Not everyone is in
a position
to feel sorry
for their own souls.

I wanna write it tonight.
I wanna write it right now.
I wanna hide from the light,
out of sight right now.

I wanna cry
once I find
the line that fits
for you, you

don't
get most
things that I write,
most things that I like.

After five
hundred sunrises
L.A. has nothing
to say to you.

Went to your house
for dinner last night,
all your
family's frames
were crooked,
girl,

don't make me write
tonight,
I've already
doubled my
entendre
once or twice
in spite of you.

Snow, snow
on the tip of her nose
sick of sincere
now spare me some change,

low, low
lo-fi guy,
his is coming at the wrong time,
I'm
all out of line.

Learn, learn
what did you learn?
What did you learn while
burning the truth?

Burn, burn,
what would I do?
What would I do if I wasn't
burning for you?

Snow, snow
on the tip of her nose,
chicken head chokin'
on a piece of advice.

Home.

It's not a place made of four sturdy walls,
built from strong brick and stone.
It has no windows to peer out of,
nothing to conceal, to keep hidden.
There's no roof above to protect,
to shield, to encase.

Home.

It's when I look into your glossy eyes at 1 a.m.
before we fall deeply together into an effortless slumber.
It's where my fingertips slowly graze your shoulders
delighting at the slightest touch of your soul's vessel.
It's what keeps me safe at nightfall when I stroll down the boardwalk
in sync, in perfect rhythm with your footsteps moving beside me.
It's why I look at my bare feet and shyly smile when a subtle compliment
travels from your muffled throat to fill my ears with joy.
It's who I open my tired, restless eyes to see every bright sunrise
filling me with the courage to face another cycle of hours, minutes, seconds.

Home.

It holds the answer to every question I've yearned to uncover.
My home will always be with you.