"Where are you from?"
I cannot answer that question. How would one? Where you are from, It makes you who you are.
I was stitched together in my mother's womb,
But that does not make me Who I am
I was born into a place
I do not recall. On a street I have never known
But when I see mountains,
Or long, twisting roads That you are sure to get lost in, Or huge forests of dark pines,
Air fills my lungs,
My heart pumps joy, And my mouth wants to whisper What my mind says, "Home."
But I do not know the quiet town.
I do not know the high school football players. I do not know the blades of grass Creeping out of the ground in the spring. I do not know the earth Under my feet.
Because I'm not from that dirt road:
Dad Burnham's Road in Pennsylvania.
I'm not from this close knit town That I grew up in either
My soul does not call this place home. I do not know every street by name. I could not point you in the right direction. The flat land is lifeless, Not gorgeous. I'm not from here.
These places, They didn't make me.
Chance made me. The wind made me. The daisies I adore, made me. My music, my friends, they made me. I'm the XX from my mother and father, Not a push pin on a map.
So if you ask me, "Where are you from?"
I won't answer. Because how do you explain That you come from nowhere.