The music of somewhere

My words....
They must be broken. I can't seem to read anything.
Or comment. Can't write. And the sounds of the city  
are getting to me. The sirens, the traffic, that lonely train  
to someplace I've never been.  
It's too loud, too quiet.  
 
Maybe I'm just tired. Tired of being awake,  
or asleep; tired of being alone and broken.  
My thoughts fall out of my head and stain the page  
like psychotic raindrops, erratic and disorganized.
 
I see that little drop down menu on my profile
tab that says, 'My Home' and it makes me sad.
That place called home: does it exist?
 
I searched by lantern on a moonless night;
I sifted through the lines and letters of a love poem.
All I could find was my own dark reflection  
in a puddle of murky rainwater.
 
If home is where the heart is,
I'm glad I left it with you.
Lovely dark; adrift in music box symphonies -  
a place where there's another name for it.
 

 (Artist unknown)