Sometimes I don't want to be home,
when the night comes down like a second wall
blocking me in.
The walls are already too thick and too high here.
They block out people and their sounds,
though not their drills or their cigarette smoke.
Nor the doorbell when it rings,
announcing yet again
the witnesses of Jehova.
Lucky me, I know their faces through the spy hole.
The walls though, are everywhere,
chasing out the light,
they squeeze out days:
One by one,
filling another year.
Then, looking out at the darkness,
the darkness which they don't keep out at all,
the darkness which looks thorough and endless,
sometimes I don't want to be home.
I don't want to be home at all.