Don't feel like home. He's a little out.
And all these words elope. It's nothing like your poem.
Putting in. Inputting in. Don't feel like methadone.
A scratching voice all alone it's nothing like your baritone.

It's nothing as it seems. The little that he needs. It's home.
The little that he sees. Is nothing he concedes. It's home.

One uninvited chromosome. A blanket like the ozone.

It's nothing as it seems. All that he needs. It's home.
The little that he frees is nothing he believes.

Saving up a sunny day. Something maybe two tone.
Anything of his own. A chip off the corner stone.
Who's kidding? Rainy day. A one way ticket headstone.
Occupations overthrown. A whisper through a megaphone.

It's nothing as it seems. The little that he needs. It's home.
The little that he sees is nothing he concedes. It's home.
And all that he frees. A little bittersweet. It's home.
It's nothing as it seems. The little that you see it's home.