define: home.

welcome home.
i've brought you here
because i was never sure
of where to put you next.
we jumped far,
and i'm not even sure
if all of me stuck that landing.
every day i remember pieces
that i'm almost sure i've
left behind.
and who knows, in 2 weeks,
i may be ready to
leave you behind.
for now, though,
welcome home.


you always mumble
about the past that i'm
not entirely sure we had.
we go back, but we aren't that deep.
in fact, our first time
involved someone
i can't even hear.
now you hold this power,
all this power over me.
like a hole i'm never afraid
of falling into;
like puppet strings
i willingly put my name on.
i'm not even sure
where you heard my name.
i'm not even sure
where you found this game.
welcome home.


welcome home,
and tell me all your lies.
can't we just get them out of the way,
and drop the whole disguise?
i'm tired of sitting here,
watching this 161-mile table turn.
turning circles around everything i know,
and everything i want to know,
and everything i'm never going to know.
i think i've made a mistake,
and after all the jokes i've heard,
i don't know how to undo it.
and, if you'll understand,
i'm not entirely sure i want to.
and, if you'll understand,
welcome home.




no matter where i turn
or which road i take,
i always try to keep tabs
on every other place.
as if i can just turn around
and run home at
any moment.
i'm not sure it's that easy anymore,
as i've commited myself to this asylum
just as you were released.
the question still remains,
would i take it back if i had the chance?
or better yet, are you regretting your release
from this prison with no bars?


what would you do for a second chance?


welcome home,
and don't say his name.
you must be silent,
for he might be listening.
he looks through all the windows,
and he's setting all the fires.
he's hiding in the walls,
and welcome home.


we are not the same.