I don't belong here.
This place is not my home.
The uniformity of suburbia makes me wearisome.
I am a pygmy among giants,
Something entirely
d i f f e r e n t
within a
society of similarity.
I don't belong here.
This place is not my home.
I close my eyes and dream
Of a half days drive north of where I stand.
Where Hemlocks tower and
Fir brush the sky
I close my eyes and I can feel
The warm sunshine beating down
enveloping my body made of stardust
The whisper of breeze cast off the lake
brushes my face and tangles my hair.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
The scent of earth and gasoline invites me in,
And I can feel the tug of cut-off shorts and eyelet lace
Tan skin smudged with oil and dirt,
Feelings of security wash over me
crisp and refreshing,
the zealous waters of the lake.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
Fireflies dance and twirl in the iridescent twilight
As millions of stars began to glow softly
I was one of them long ago.
The man on the moon demurely shows his face,
And I smile back.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
A car horn jolts me out of my reverie; smog fills my lungs yet again.
No longer standing among friends in mountain air,
But sitting along, surrounded by concrete.
I needed only a fleeting moment of nostalgia to remind me.
That I don't belong here.
This place is not home.