I always put hope,
In the faith that you held close,
Until my final breath,
And the dawning of my death,
In my own premature exoneration,
With your sunday's best,
And your poorly veiled happiness,
And nights on which i couldn't sleep,
And promises I couldn't keep,
And times at which I lay awake,
And life becoming a mistake.

Yet hormones and longing,
Don't lead to belonging,
Just self-medication,
And self-righteous wronging,
So I stand here,
Without a friend,
Till my dillusional heart,
Permits pitiful ends,
And from life to dust,
At the end of the road,
With nowhere to go,

There's no place like home.