Everything unsaid, stacked in their boxes,
while the book without words writes itself.
And if hostility veils a weak consciousness,
then what does that say about this anger?
They say I'm Always Home,
compelled that I'm stuck home
So I can't be transient anymore, or lock jawed,
I'll write what I know and hold nothing back,
reach toward the orderly, infinite cosmos,
but fall back into my impermanent chaos:
That I'll water down, that I'll bundle up,
but whose grave's a dead forest around me,
to where I disappear sometimes, when I can't see myself,
cutting all over but never on my body.
You said I'm Always Home
Emotion can be wrong,
but emotion is all there is.