Any Place You Go Is Your Home Poem by Maxwell Ames

Where am I going to go when I get out of my room, and who am I going to see on the street,

the people just walk bye, and sometimes I catch an eye, so what is happening in my bedroom?

what is happening in my pants? my brain is flushing with thought without proper circumstance.

I need to get out, I need to get out! but apathy is a grand anchor, with cigarette smoke in the sails,

an ocean of booze and marijuana hardtack. The likes of which have never been seen!

My future has never been seen! Where could a ship like this take me? Someplace were no planes fly, someplace no-one but me can go. Shaving cream froth sputters like flame and moth,

and jettisoned books are superb in someone else's lives but not mine.
My clothes thrown about my room in war torn-corpsefield fashion.

It rained today and I'm not afraid to go out and roll in the street, but the way down might kill me.

My wool socks and pajama pants and dad's sweatshirt keep me cocooned in my bed and my fingers lovingly frapping the clavier. I listen to maxence cyrin and it sounds like rain. where can i possibly be headed. where can one rest a weary head. if any place you go is your home, then your heart is always with you, but you're always alone.