Exile

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.