Between the going and the coming home

I'm not really a very good writer, but I try sometimes. I mean I don't have any trouble with writing about something, I can word my thoughts there easily enough, but I'm pretty much atrocious at actually expressing my self, my feelings, my... well, yeah. But I try sometimes, and I feel like that's probably good for me. So I'll try to do some of that.

It seems I'm always going, here to here and there to here. It doesn't seem to matter much which way I go today, it's always, always going, and never coming home. Not sure where home really is anymore, if ever I can say I was. Today I strike a new direction, one I've not gone before. Far as the stop is on the other end, it does promise I can stay a while. But despite the distance or duration, I'm ever caught between the going and the coming home.