It's those homes filled with the still silence that captivate my imagination
Tell me when will it fill with anguish and ignite
Waiting for the volcanic eruptions at night
I feel the devastation of the children
Covering their ears from this vile institution
It's the homes that grow dark before dawn that bellow my intuition
The homes like my own
Where the walls bleed the craze of contemplation
Suicide is the door bell eoching through the isolation
Cries of lies are the flames that blaze the crippling imperfections
Those homes with no lights to guide
Just like mine.
That intrigue my inner hatred that never was allowed to believe