Self Imposed Exile
I want to go back to my country
But I can't seem to find the way
Poverty is blurring the coordinates
With every passing day
I want to sit with my family
And speak my native tongue
Eat my mother’s home cooked meals
And feel that I belong
I am happy to have the work I do
At least it pays the rent
But after buying food and clothes
I wonder where the money went
How do I talk to my children?
About the place that I call home
To them it's just a story
that I tell when I feel alone.
I worry about my parents
And the strife they daily face
In a place once rich and vibrant
Now sadly out of grace.
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