at 22 years old the only place that I call home is a feeble crumbling rock wall, a place to call my own. to sit, to think, to have myself a drink while the real world beyond hurtles along. I’ve had some places I’ve lived in but home I’ve never felt, bounced around, enjoyed the ride, played the hand that I was dealt. but when I’m at the point I should be grown up, moving on, the only question I can seem to ask is where it all went wrong. the chorus of birds they don’t help out, their chirps coarse through my viens. god knows if they weren’t there I’d likely go insane. a place to sit, a place to cry, a place to curl up and die. and I wouldn’t trade it for the fucking world.
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