I thought being away from home
Would be something I'd feel proud of,
Yet it was something I'd detest,
J'arrive en solitaire, but difference is
I'd miss everything, my mother
The littlest touch of home,
J'arrive en solitaire, but difference is
I'd miss everything, my mother
The littlest touch of love.
I thought solitude was comforting
But what solitude is—sometimes—
A bag of bones.
YOU ARE READING
Carry Me Out
PoetryI wish I'd carry me out of the things I never want to be with. I wish I'd carry me out of this life, to leave what I had dreamed, to neglect what I had sown.
