I was home in Westwood.
I was home in Camp Lejeune.
I was home with one love.
I failed at childhood; failed state, failed home.
Desperate for home anywhere I lay my head.
I could have called Iraq home,
if I stayed there long enough,
to remember where I was,
during those 3am wake ups.
Pitch black and disoriented.
Where am I? The Humvee, the ship,
Boston, Camp Lejeune, whose bed,
is this? Chris are you there?
But no, on the road, too much,
to call the desert home,
to call the FOBs home,
filled with toxifying burn pits, graveyards for IEDs,
and dust filtered sunrises.
Now nowhere is home, not even home.
And the 3am wake ups, disorientation replaced
with a saturated sense of catastrophe.
Pitch black replaced with an insatiable need
for improvement - nothing is good enough.
The mantra: failed states, failed homes.