You made Home out of people.
But look at you, you are here now, homeless.
They say home is where the heart is,
So where should I go, finding mine, while
you’re busy digging yours?
In the time when I can catch dreams,
I hear the clock ticking louder and louder.
And I lay hopelessly romaticizing poetry
Staring at my recently decorated wall.
But this isn’t home.
I feel like a soldier now;
I long to go home.
Home is where the heart is.
And I hope mine keeps beating there.