Iniside Outsider

Home is a foreign land That hurls the might of its confusion around the world Strangers believe they know my bruises The smallness of boxes they call eyes And woo them into a false comfort I will not live in boxes They are not my home Home is laughter Home is rounded figures Home is a sharpened mental weapon To be wielded against foreigners of the spirit I am tired of being different My feet burn from the fires of those Who have been anointed With the certainty of origins I will wander the earth In search of my tribe Or build it from the shreds of boxes With my own hands