Somewhere in urban Michigan
Among the foreclosed shacks,
The cracked pavement,
The American cars
There is a tiny rental
That holds more memories of me
Than I of it.

Now, there are trikes on its disheveled lawn,
As a dog warily eyes all passers-by.
My dad speaks fondly of
The neighborhood boys who were so nice to me
The porch for those summer nights
The great Mexican restaurant down the street.
This is where I am from.

But if home is where the heart is, then

My home is a blue room
Overlooking a parking lot on one end,
Angry musicians glaring from the wall.
Old friends, boyfriends, imaginary friends
Have all left their own mark
Though these marks are not as visible as the plaster
That covers a fist-sized hole.

This room,
This safe haven, music studio, creative center,
All rolled into one:
This is where I became me.