I can't count the amount of times,
I've packed my life into,
Cardboard boxes,
Of all shapes,
And all sizes.

I sit in a room emptying,
more and more as the days pass,
And I ******* hate it.

Where is home?

But I push on.
Keeping mental notes,
Of where I put my daily routine's,
Bits and pieces.

Where is home?

It seems I lose more of what I own,
Everytime I pack away parts,
Of my tangible soul.

No, it's true,
I don't have many things.

It makes it easier for when I have to leave.