Compromised Focus

Screaming in basements to avoid being heard,

Typing out thoughts so patience doesn’t have to be tested,

It’s all become so routine;

Figuring out how to make the loudest noise yet remain concealed

In an absent-minded and loud world.

Exhausted at the resonance of criticism,

Flattened by the glare of chosen ignorance,

My disdain for sleep is tested by my stronger desire to avoid people.

While my body will be in far worse pain if I lay down uselessly,

It’s better than the pain of being surrounded by people

whose interactions feel like they’re done out of duty rather than hospitality.

Why believe you’re in a group when the people make you feel lonely?

Why sit next to someone who seems as though they’re deaf to your voice only?

I’m confused as to what relationships are actually supposed to do,

Especially since people seem to favor conversations on screens involving icons and abbreviations,

Rather than human engagement and sound.

Why should I see you in person when I can see you just fine on my phone screen?

Don’t waste your touch You won’t feel anything



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”.