Living at the outskirts of a place called 'belongingness',
Having a native heart,
yet being called an outsider over and over..
Mixing in tears with hopes,
And stubbornness with compliance,
like liquor with flames, wanting to taste some numbness..
I fail to blend my own hues,
into the dear red bricks fragrant of my own blood..
I fail to be less than a soul ,
even for a love, loving enough to call my own..
How do I let go of my longing to belong,
if all it takes is for me to forget myself..
How do I scream away my truth,
if everything I know and understand is a ringing silence..
How do I put into words,
what to my people is just my quiet delusion..
I don't know what am I doing,
still needing to be heard and understood..
While by now I should be comfortably seasoned,
in my own salty burn of 'helplessly mute'..
Yet there's still a part in me
that'd rather stay empty than pay the wrong cost..
Living at the outskirts of a place called 'acceptance',
the Homeless Heart in me will always feel lost..