Out of place my exile follows me everywhere.
Do I belong where I was born?
Do I belong where I was raised? Oh how I am torn.
My torments exist in my mind.
It breaks my heart; I feel I am running out of time.
I am an outsider, no they are outsiders.
Nostalgia is an unpleasant reminder.
For I am here observing land, culture, and language.
In disgust for I know my old self will not salvage.
I can’t go back to my origin.
I can’t stay here; if I will I will dig my coffin.
My heart is aching, nostalgia is my disease.
Desperately I urge for the cure, home.
Yet, when I return my memories are gone.
Do I need time?
Either trample the past and move forward
Or lay in the ground and die like a coward.
We are all living exiles searching for home.
Most of us find it, sadly some of us wouldn’t.