Old Poem

Found this one gathering dust the other day. Funny the stuff I wrote drunk in Brockton.

I've left myself with no home,
no box to store myself in
no space to place these thoughts,
caving the tunnel behind me so that each
attempt to go back or follow the wet walls
when darkness falls I find the rubble
that keeps every brockton or danville at bay
till I finally can say that this is my life,
my early crises gone till I see that
maybe I can live on my own,
prove that I've grown out of a degree
and into me.