Hundreds of homes sit
Cookie cutter produced

With manicured red rose bushes
And fences painted by immigrants

The suburban white breads
Flock to these copycat communities

Eager to fit in with their pale skinned
Blue eyes babies and mother-father pair

It’s all pleasant and just a bit
Creepy; the lack of contrast

How are we to manage happiness
With such tasteless lives?

-x-

I’d like to take a hammer
To these mass produced homes

And hack their roses to mush or
Kick their fences to splinters

To make a **** original piece
No matter how bizarre or damaged

So that our skin color, our ***, would be
The last thing to be seen as ‘weird’

Maybe then we’ll be content with the contrast
In a home that just breathes our presence

Even if we’re out and about; living
No part of us, even our home, will conform

To the standards of society