If this is not my home, then why do I remember so much. Why do I walk the streets and recognise its touch.
If this is not my home, then tell me how how true freedom feels, I ran these fields, on my toes and my heels.
If this is not my home, then why do I remember so much, I lost my virginity here, I can still feel her touch.

I learnt to ride a bike out on these streets, long summer nights, ice cream and water fights.
I got my heart broken right here on these steps, the first love I lost, we kissed, fingers interlocked.

If this is not my home, then why do I remember frosty mornings, playing rugby in the rain, the brotherhood, the pain.
If this is not my home, then why do I remember so much, my first fight on a drunken night, a police cell, we raised hell.
If this is not my home, then why does it hurt so much, the friends I’ve lost, my kingdom for a touch.

Home, where your heart can rest, your mind can wander, you sit quietly contemplating through rain and thunder.
This is not your home, they tell me to get on a plane, a six and a half hour journey, will wipe away the pain.

If this is not my home, then why have I found my place, the comfort the love, her warm embrace.
If this is not my home, then why would I care, a North london derby, damn right I’ll be there.
If this is not my home, then how can I stomach the grub, yesterday’s fish and chips in an old dodgy pub.

The colour of my skin, they say I do not reside, tho I like my toast done on both sides.

I am neither scared nor afraid, I sleep in the bed I have made, my decisions my own, actions I alone must condone.
If this is not my home, then tell me where to go, my fabric is woven, with these hands I did sew.
If this is not my home, then why do I remember so much, this may not be your home, but I must do what I must.

A poem by Buki Koshoni