Once, my home was a

Wasteland.

Devoid of true love, bone dry,

Starved for integrity, and honesty.

I walked alone among the

Constantly swirling dust particles

Of other people’s needs.

I was surrounded by

Half-truths, and broken promises.

A veil of someone else’s delusions

Covered my eyes.

My purpose was not to understand,

Not to see, but

Simply to serve.

Now, though I live in a garden,

I am loth to trust the flowers.

Every frond, I eye with suspicion.

Every blossom is a question mark.

Sometimes I worry that the bees

Are buzzing amongst themselves about me,

Telling each other that

I don’t belong here.

I no longer know

What my purpose is.

When you’re raised in a

Wasteland,

A peaceful life oft

Feels more like war

Than violence and derision.

The dust has cleared.

The once-parched ground I walk on

Is now lush and fertile.

It’s beautiful, I suppose.

Both domestic and foreign.

I’m a stranger in a strange land

That I’m supposed to call home.

The problem is, I didn’t leave that

Wasteland

Entirely behind; no.

The problem is, some of that

Wasteland

Came along with me here.

Some of that

Wasteland

Still lies deep within.

I fear it always will.