Home is where the HURT is

Having thrown a few clothes in a bag,
I left this place long ago, and began to roam;
The uncertainness of the road was better,
Better than what was at home.

I have experienced everything imaginable,
It is no fairytale world, life on the street;
I have been beat up, raped, pimped out, and abused by police,
But at least out there, I was still on my feet.

I don't know why I came back for his funeral,
I wished for his death for so long, it should be as merry as a circus;
But I stare at his lifeless body, and merely think:
Home is where the HURT is.