A tinge of yearn to a place I’ve never physically been,
counts no credit, just baseless longing within.
Why leave, home here makes a stable friend- but
the bud that won’t bloom feels sick in my gut.
My answer, the truth is an emotional drawn to,
but sweet logic, that just isn’t sufficient for you.
A heart of melancholy sits dreadfully still,
mind a swirl with the turns we take and live by.
A love song coaxes the weak throat to sing
but is dimly constricted, and sad.
the expectancy of inhumane perfection that make our lovely people, and
a government smothered in their aged blend of weasel words and denial;
I wholeheartedly jump on the bandwagon, the eager front seat
for I am leaving this strangled town.