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Tuesday, January 29, 2008


It is home I feel caged,
free when I am away
and timed in every action.
It is the oppressiveness of childhood,
memories like blankets
smothering me, sheets of sunshine
and unforgotten glories.
This is no excuse, I understand,
for the edge in my voice
when you try (civilized) conversation,
But neither is there excuse
for your actions,
however unknowingly struck-
For words are sharp,
and I bleed often in the confine
of the room I once called mine.
So I will try my best to leave
as soon as I see
a window of opportunity,
and you will no object directly-
I’ll be leaving again soon, anyways.

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