Confession 1: what is home?
And where does a heart belong? In the wooden, nailed
tall high rises, apartment building
cells?
in the hearts of others
who we meet?
Hold dear in our arms
for one evening?
Until their names slipped from our lips one last time and
are replaced tomorow night by anouther warm hand to
hold
until the clock strikes 12 times
and we are alone again, like we always were
And if we're drinking and
smoking and laughing and
f***ing, to try and
Keep the Questions at bay

and if we don't look directly in the sunshine,
maybe we'll never
See the light.

Maybe a warm body for 2 hours until
you're through with
each other
on to another.

When our souls are alone
and starving, starving
for a hand to hold
but God never designed mine to fit into anyone else's,
And God made yours too slippery
and I never got a grasp
Maybe a home is where the heart is
and maybe my home is
Each New Mistake I Make