This Town.

This is my Town.  This is my city. This is my home when shit gets gritty.
I see the lights, hear the sounds, and know everything will be okay now.

This is my block, this is my home. These are my streets that lead me home. It doesn’t matter where I am going. It just matters how long before I come back to the familiar stench of this familiar city. I watch things come, I watch things go. People are free to come and go as they please. Leave and return, everything will be okay soon.

I want more. I want more than the bare boned buildings that become nothing more than skeletons of our past. More than this slowing pulse of people settling, growing further away from who they used to be. A million mistakes away from our future self. A thousand forgiven apologizes in the form of morphed manipulation into something different. This town changes you. This town keeps your grounded. This town sucks at the empty soul of your youth and helps settle you into the bitter adulthood.

We were all those crazy kids once. Kids that travelled to larger cities, bigger than our hometown. Away from the familiar streets. Away from the roads that lead us home. Seeking adventure, seeking life, seeking something bigger than this mundane life. You could always go home, they say. Always come back to this town that stayed embedded into your brain.

We grow up to hate each other. Grow up bitter from our past and grow up to shatter the shells of our former selves. This isn’t what was suppose to happen. This wasn’t how I was suppose to be. We all said we’d be friends forever. Now I can’t even look at half of your faces. We grow up to be better versions of ourselves. When does that actually start? Half of us aren’t better, instead we are bitter. I can’t stand by this anymore.

This town is home when it feels fit to be. This town is my town, whenever I want it to be.


Hometown Glory.

No matter where you go, you can always come home.

We are no longer who we say we are. We are slowly drifting further from who we were when we started. Growing up and accepting life’s responsibilities of being grown up. Different places, different faces, different times, changing us into who we are suppose to be. It doesn’t matter where we are going, but we end up further from where we started. “Don’t ever change”, you would once say. Now all I want to do is be someone else, some place else.

Running away is easy. Run to the hills where no one will find you. Run to the streets and to the oceans that will separate you from me. I’ve run to bigger cities with their ever eclipsing skyscrapers, to escape these thoughts. To escape my footsteps that stay cemented on the grounds, that have been repaved to be broken again. How big the city seems that makes me feel small, how small my hometown is that never let me grow. I can’t help but watch it all happen all over again. I am growing older but feeling the same. In the same places in different spaces. Your soul feels exposed when the light hits you just right. In a town where everyone knows your secrets and you can’t help but hide from the lies that always seem like truths. Its not where you’re going, it’s how far and fast you can leave this place. Away from familiar faces and away from the boring mundane familiarity of yesterday. If I stand still, I watch everything pass me by.

Miles from home you tend to still feel alone. You hang on to different experiences to make you different. To feel like someone else in some place else. All life is, is a bunch of experiences to make you grow up. Be different, be weird, be who you’re suppose to be. Inside you’re aware of how phony you feel. Even 300 miles from home, you still yearn to be home. Still seek comfort in the familiar that you’ve tried desperately to escape. I spent a lot of time running away from my hometown. Wishing I was somewhere else, any where but here. Even being 300 miles away, I am still wishing to be somewhere else. I am still wanting to be anywhere but here in this moment. Everyone once in a while, when the light hits just right my hometown feels like home to me.

Being home I don’t feel so alone. Even after a while people leave and go off to far off destinations. I am a plane ride away from my next adventure. Living in and out of a big fat suitcase and still I linger on. Home is just a concept to make you feel something you can’t explain. Home is another word for failure and all it’s hurtful things. Home is how I feel when ever I am here with you. For the first time all these love letters I have written to other cities seem misplaced. After all these years I search for things to remind me of you, and here I am again.

Home is not a concept in my mind. Home is my feet planted firmly on the ground. Across the cracked pavements of the streets I know by heart. Home is a house that sits empty on gravel street in my memory. Even after all these years. After all the places I’ve lived. All the places I made my home, in cities bigger than my hometown. It’s my hometown I come back to. It’s my hometown that makes being alone not feel lonely anymore. It’s in my hometown that I feel that I have something, when I lost everything in sight.

For the first time I am home, even when I have failed miserably inside. It doesn’t hurt me anymore.





When you move home after years of being on your own, its a hard adjustment. Living with family is different then living with strangers, either way you forget who you are. When you’re on your own, you’re a different person. You can be yourself and your only responsibility is to yourself. It’s hard to come home and regain that life you had before. You’ve been places, you’ve seen things, and no matter where you have been, home is suppose to be home. You lose your independence when your only sense of privacy is the four walls of your own room. I could tell myself this is home until I am blue in the face but this isn’t home. I can’t help but feel like a stranger passing though. When you’ve been on your own it’s a hard realization that this is reality. This is what happens when you make false moves and fail miserably. You answered to no one on your own and now you’re answering millions of questions that fall upon deaf ears.

This isn’t a home. It’s just a place I make my bed just as I had done with the rest of my mistakes. This isn’t my house when I lost the sense of comfort in my own misery. The longer I shut the blinds to shield myself from the sun, the longer I continue into this darkness. This sense of failure that looms over me. I find myself laying awake at night, trying to focus on the ceiling. Where did I go wrong? What is the purpose of this existence, if all I do is fail and come home? All of my belongings are nostalgic memories of the past I no longer want. Accumulating mountains of bullshit currency in these belongings I no longer need. I just want to get rid of everything. Every last bit of these failed memories and feel like this is a home. I know it will never happen and I know that deep down letting everything go would only bring forth the madness within.

I’ve driven past every memory of this hometown. Driven past the reminders of the past and the stories that come with them. Every street, every street light, everything. This doesn’t feel like home to me. While I have been raised here, it’s not home to me. Life was different when I was on my own and alone. Not I am just alone and filled with everyone expectations of what my life should be. When can I go home? Where is my home? I could pick up the pieces and start again but the dark cloud always looms over me. Give it a moment before it starts to fall apart again and back to packing our bags and moving vans.

I need to leave this town to feel better. I need to get back on my feet and find my home again. Its hard to adjust once the comfort of home comes over you. Is this comfort or is this settling? Beats me. I just want to find that place that belongs to me where I feel at home. But where is home? If it’s not here, then where.

Where do I belong.