Meet the nomads of America,
the misfits of our race
the ones who ride on rails in boxcars
Carrying Lives
from place to place.
Meet the ones
Who stick out thumbs,
Gypsies of the high plains
and Roma tribes of Oregon.
The state fair circus folk
with peculiar tattooed faces,
Staring through the sunburnt haze
into the depths
of outer space.
The carny girls
who pass through town
and band van drifters
who just don’t
stick around…
it’s something that we
have never had,
but i guess that’s all it really is;
just a different type of being sad,
the hunted vagabond kid.
the loneliness of the road,
the freedom of the wanderer,
the empty absence of a home-
but at times i think,
Fuck it let’s go,
Pack my shit
and
Westward Ho.
Original Poetry 
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