Spending all my time cause I don’t want to go home.
Working helps me feel as if I’m less alone.
I hold my head up high knowing this is something I can control,
because all the time I’m used to being controlled.

Like a puppet for my master,
I watch my future go
So, instead, I cling on to anything that I know

It might just be school for some, but for me, it feels like home
A false sense of security, I worry on my own…
Will I be good enough to keep this temporary home?
Will I work hard enough to be temporarily loved?

I walk around with my head held high
…like I own the place
…..that’s never really been mine

They ask me if I want to leave
If I want to go home,
But I rather be here all night,
The place I call my own.