Home is i dunno
what the fuck
a place in my head that
remembers buildings, an
umbrella from acid rain,
hallways filled with boring journeys
from the kitched to the mattress
where i can’t fall asleep, and then
drink some wine and write garbled
bullshit that i assign literary qualities and
existential meaning to so i can feel
better about my life,
no,
home died when i was five,
celebrating a birthday
with sardines and a cupcake,
playing chess with my grandma in
between the times she told me
to pray to god and i said
fuck your god grandma, he hasn’t
helped you much, cause
your home is lost now too,
and some of your family
has been shot now too, and
your memories don’t have a place
where they fit the sorroundings and
i’m gonna go read Nietzche grandma
because if he could he would have
burned your god, like the war burned us,
but don’t take it personally grandma,
i love you, you’re just looking for some
hope like i am, but i’m just not gonna
lie to myself to make things better,
i’m gonna cherish these sardines because
they make far more sense to me
than a playstation 2,
so fuck it,
might as well make my home the color blue,
and everytime i see it i’ll say
“lucy i’m home!”
in my head and giggle to myself,
and then stop and feel lonely again.