BACKPACK

born a
rolling stone
meant to
travel alone
dreams
unrealized
lived
marginalized
never had
a home
continued to
roam
no one else
around
find new
stomping grounds
nowhere to
settle down
moved town
to town
wandering days
through
nothing else
to do
back to
familiar turf
faceless
no worth
no possessions
or connections
treated like
an infection
no future
to grasp
only memories
gone past
was told
tell what
you know
searched high
and low
for a tale that
would fly
take readers on
an emotional ride
where pain
and sorrow
overflow
on page paint
one hell of a show
grew tired
uninspired
then i
saw me
smiled at
the irony
a treasure
to behold
backpack filled
with gold
buttons
and pins
of places
i'd been
plethora of stories
to write
beauty in
the strife
snapshots
of life
breaking
bread
with strangers
just met
into lives
i peeked
characters
unique
found where i
belong
is the chair
i'm sitting on
all i
need
resides
in me
no fixed
address
on those
trains
and highways
is where i nest