homesick— in a room— not empty but messy laundry,
in a room— I longed— for a few of my love memory,
my memory— I reminisce— a broken clock stopped working;
the broken clock— seems I'm high— cause it rotates counterclockwise.
I'm homesick— and I long for feelings— not a place, not a room, but a feeling for myself.

© G. E.G. Martinez
4/22/24