Au revoir, à mon coeur et à mon âme

Walking pathways of death as respectful as one is able,

You find an occasional numb in the midst of being overwhelmed or unknowing of what to do and how to feel.

Faces of those who might know the area as home are illumined and regarded,

Faces of those visiting are studied as well out of curiosity,

And then those who are seeking a new home in this unfamiliar land;

They are the ones who you do your best to assure they have been seen,

While the world may seemingly pass them by.

In a world on edge,

Below ground can be a place to find peace.

When walking caverns that have become hallowed halls of history,

A certain stillness is found even when actively observing your surroundings;

knowing you’ve temporarily escaped the chaos and noise of society above.

In refining one’s self, you find that you also lose pieces of your “self”;

It makes you wonder if it’ll all be worthwhile,

or if it will be just another phase or season.

Something meant for a scrapbook rather than a defining step forward as a human,

Compulsion rather than immersion.

My critical eyes have been poked many times over,

But I believe the time has come to gouge them out.

For I’d rather gain knowledge blindly and objectively,

then have the privilege of sight but also the handicap of unneeded critique.

With bones dislocated, emotions suppressed or dead, and a mind rather empty;

What good would I pose as just another spoon fed oaf?

As I prepare to leave,

I don’t have a final destination.

As the mirror reflects a face that is familiar,

I don’t immediately acknowledge it as my own.

Maybe a shadow of someone I knew,

Or someone I’d rather forget I met.

Just a sketch of someone or something,

From a place no longer existent.

fullsizeoutput_c80

Moving Back iN

I used to think that traveling would make me want to be home,

After all;

That’s what I saw a lot in the people I’ve traveled with.

They’d all have this “home sickness”,

Making them long for things they claimed to be tired of only a few weeks before.

 

Traveling for me though,

Had a different effect;

Almost altogether opposite,

If anything it was traveling that made me most aware that I don’t have a clue what “home” is.

 

I’ve been told that I don’t belong,

And I’ve never felt I belong;

Not just in one place,but anywhere.

 

Wherever me and my backpack end up,

That is home.

 

Home isn’t some picket fenced “American dream” house,

And it’s not the apartment projects on the corner that get better business than some McDonalds either;

But, I don’t know what it is.

 

In my lack of knowledge,

And this is where it becomes laughably stupid;

I’ve come to wonder,

If the only reason I don’t know what home is…

Is because I’m afraid to know how to be at “home”?

 

It’s as if I’d lose part of my personality,

Part of my identity;

If by some miraculous nightmare,

I learned how to not want to be everywhere I’m not.

 

If anyone asks,

No story will be given;

“I’m just passing by”.

——————————————————————–