I wrote this today, which explains how I feel quite well, in fact:

The Lonely Wanderer

The lonely wanderer without a home
Has no one—all he's ever known,
No recollections of the past to guide
That which he seeks is lost, inside.

No comfort will he ever find out there
Amid the frosty, gloomy air;
And should he venture to where he doth dwell
He'll find it hot as any hell.

Though always suffering--his life defined,
His face feigns thoughts of a gentle mind.
Although no one stops, staring straight at him
He feels the burden of his sin.

So while he searches for a brief respite
Outside, he's trapped in endless plight.
The lonely wanderer without a home
Will always be himself: alone.