Wanderlust is home

there's nothing more provocative

than a societal chain, dripping 

with the grease of ignorance and 

prejudice, gripping you by the

neck and whispering in your innocent 

ears, "you're not going anywhere,

young boy. not on my watch." 

i'm not homeless, dear wide eyes.

believe me when i say that

you and i have very different 

definitions of home.

for me, my lost meander is home.

the wet ground that smells of

freedom that my naked feet makes

love to, is my home.

do not think of me as unmarried,

dear ignorant commonality. 

it's just that, i take the delight 

in marrying the Sun's horizon

and the lustful universe,

merely to strip its clothing and

embrace its true significance.

let me let you in on an electrifying

secret.

i'm homesick. i've been homesick

ever since i planned to pack my

bag with ideologies of a vagabond.

but this isn't your everyday

homesickness. this is my drive.

it's a sickness louder than winter.

it is a great affair of feeling 

homesick for places i have 

never had the absolute honour of discerning.