Sometimes I feel **** alien, even in the
Most familiar of surroundings.
Instead of spinning, pointing,
Naming everything Home,

I shut myself, and turn inward.
Day after day the first one at a
New school in a foreign country,
As far from a cool kid as the

Overweight teacher's pet with a
Stutter. I don't even know how to
Speak my own name in their
Incomprehensible language.

Nothing here is for me, and
At least E.T. had a home to phone; all
I have is the space i possess as I walk
Through it, eyes firm on borrowed

Footing. No single road leads to my
Rome, and somewhere inside the
Timelessness of my innermost, the
Old, old man watches the young'uns

Talking, dressing, adressing,
Preferring, doing it all the way
Young'uns do, with pale, tired eyes
And simply just

Can't, -tries, but- just doesn't
Understand.