Home is above the clouds, where dragons roam and fairies float.
Home is in the sky, where mists gather and shatter cloud-made boats.
Starlight shines differently there, in the grandest sea there is.
Colors flow beautifully, in that fantasy where wizards live.
Home is where the stories are, and limits aren’t really real.
Home is where imagination takes you higher than what you feel.
Cascading memories drip wonder from lies you wished were true.
Waterfalls of love and hate flood strongly into emotion’s brew.
Home is where death takes you even when you love life.
Home is where sadness sucks the joy away and gives back only strife.
Wishing joy and happiness would come and only finding clouds.
Promising to take you up and away from the chanting crowds.
Home is wherever life is, even when life isn’t what they said.
Home is where depression lives, in your heart and in your head.
Dragons aren’t real, and fairies don’t float.
Wizards are fantasy, and clouds were never boats.
Home was never good enough, and it will never be what it could have been.
Home was never good enough, and it will never be what it should have been.
Above the clouds are fantasies only dreamt of in our heads.
Above the clouds are stories that lift us above the dreary dead.