It’s horrible, you know.
Not having a home, I mean.
My feet want to grow roots, and just when they sprout, I have to rip them up
          And start the process over again.
The place of my childhood is not where I belong anymore
It is comfortable in an odd, other-worldy, dream-like sense.
The place I now sleep will be different tomorrow.
          I am a nomad, with no place to call my own.
          Sometimes I wish I didn’t desire a safe place to call mine.
Home is where the heart is, they say.
          My heart belongs to no one.
                    Not anymore, anyway.
I used to believe that I had given it away,
          But I hadn’t,
                         Or maybe it was thrown back at me
                                     I can’t seem to remember.
                                    But I still feel the pain, and I remember that I don’t want to remember.
                  But in my dreams I can recall it all.
                             They are like nightmares, reminding me that I don’t belong
                             And that running won’t save me.
I wish I had a home, a heart to call mine, friendships nearby,
           And a warm fire to bring life back to my weary bones.
But it’s raining now, and I need to find shelter.
So I’ve got to go,
I doubt I’ll return.
I won’t ask you to remember me,
Though I’ll remember the empty space that you might’ve once filled.