I'm trying to move forward
Trying to build a life for myself
You know, the one that everyone seems to be striving for
We may not all want the same white picket fence or number of children but I'd be ****** if somebody told me that they didn't want the roof over their head to feel like home.
Some people say that home is not a place but a feeling
I don't know what they're talking about
I wonder if this is why I always feel lost
Why, whenever I go home, I feel misplaced. Like an oversized puzzle piece in the wrong box.
I am trying to fit in but it is clear that I don't belong
I am trying to move forward, trying to build a life for myself, but I have come to realize that I have been filling this void with material possessions
I have so many nice things in my house, that for a while I even had myself fooled
You cannot buy that feeling, but maybe it can be mended. 
When I look around me, I see that most people have the sense of home weaved into their foundation.
Some things cannot be built from scratch.
I had to take the good with the bad, despite wanting to leave them both behind.
I went home the other day, and by home I mean hell, and by hell I mean Phoenix, but it might as well be hell because that scorching city holds all of my demons.
I drove to my childhood home
To my surprise it was still standing.
I could have swore that the foundation would have given way by now, and that I would have to sift through the rubble just to find what I was looking for.
I glared at this house in disgust, as if it were a monster that swallowed my happiness.
As I was about to drive away, a woman walked out with two little girls in sun dresses. They were racing to the car, I couldn't make out their words but their smiles and laughter hit me like a brick.
I drove away and everything began to make sense.
Home is not a place, home is a feeling.