It isn’t about the fancy decor,
Or the cracked, dirty floor.
It isn’t about the dozens of slides, the excels, or words,
Or the many faces, that smile yet judge your worth.
It isn’t about the moolah you accumulate, the monies in your wallet,
Or the feeling of exhaustion, the shackle of an amulet.
It’s about a feeling that’s certain, one that keeps you warm.
Of days and nights that convince you, life isn’t a harm.
It’s about knowing, instinctively, your sense of right and wrong.
Of wanting to stay, to fight without a frown.
To do all that you intend to, without letting it pull you down.
To be who you are, right down to your messed up, nomadic soul.