no luggage makes for a boring journey since my hands hold no stories

and as i’ve mentioned before, “without my baggage how would i travel”

how could i unravel where i’m going without telling you where i’ve been

like the daughter i bore on a September night, all that is me comes from within

there is no end in sight when you have to keep starting over

peace is like the four leaf clover i desperately want to find

my mind is not my own–it is the shared space i’ve rented out to my depression and anxiety

and compliancy is a must, though it is disguised as lies dressed up as trust

the trauma that trails in my footsteps are like medusa’s stare which turned me to stone

but life is the hammer that chips away at me, so that one day i can return home