Just a poem.
18.05.2014 - 18.05.2014 13 °C
Tired of not having a home,
of people asking if I'm on holiday,
or what my next destination is.
I'm tired of having an answer to that question.
I'm tired of having no place to cook,
and no one to cook for.
Any chance I get, I stay all day inside,
for I miss the cozy warmth,
I miss doing nothing, without anyone staring.
Or asking me why.
I miss having a house, and a day to day life.
I'm tired of eating once at sunrise,
and once at sundown.
Like following some traveling Ramadan.
I'm tired of looking for people that speak my language,
or any other that I speak.
Of repeating myself with simpler words.
I'm tired of depending on others.
And having nothing but a smile to give back.
My shoulders, my back and my feet are tired.
My skin is tired.
My soul is tired.
I'm tired of nostalgia.
Of visiting places I once were,
and finding the memories better.
I'm tired of missing others,
missing places I've never been to.
I'm exhausted of planning,
and then doing something else.
But I guess, I just must love feeling tired.
For I have no intention of stopping.
Not anytime soon.
I wrote this on Facebook originally, but I guess it belongs here.