What is it
A state of mind?
A place where people are kind?
(Unless you live alone.)
Then there’s no one but you.
I don’t feel at home with myself.
(With yourself, I mean.)
Are you at ease with yourself?
Can you lay your guard to rest?
Try to put your overworked brain to bed.
But don’t forget to tell the rest of your body
To stay alert.
(You can’t trust anyone.)
If you open the cobwebbed crypt to your heart,
THEY won’t let you rest
Until THEY’VE swallowed your restless soul with their lies.
THEY come into your home.
(You know, the tangible place where you put all your stuff.)
The place you leave to go to work
And the same place you go to when you leave work.
BUT IT’S NOT YOURS ANYMORE.
THEY’VE stolen your peace of mind.
(You can always pick another state.)
There are plenty left over.
What’s the matter?
Are you feeling home … less?
C’mere, I’ll give you a cardboard box,
But you have to pick your own alley
In which to reside.
What’s the difference, anyway?
You’ve lived out of boxes all your life.
Why should now be any different?
(Simply get another P.O.)
And don’t forget those “change-of-address” forms.
Go “home” and pack your stuff.
(You didn’t belong there in the first place.)
It was only a matter of time.
It’s your fault for letting your brain go to sleep.
“I should have known,” you say.
So what? You were only renting.
(It’s not like it ever belonged to you in the first place.)
Evidently, you don’t belong anywhere, either.
Twenty-four moves in almost 25 years?
Twelve educational institutions in your not-quite 25 years?
No roots, that’s your problem.
All you can do is pack up and run.
You’ll be thinking “what if? for the rest of your life.
But THEY can’t change your mind —
THEY can’t run you out of there
Because no one’s home.