I can hear the cars pass by
my dim lit room.
I can hear children cry
in the apartment below.
The paint is peeling from the wall,
moist from the latest rainfall.
There's nine locks on my door,
but i can't tell you I feel safe.
My room is dim,
not polite enough to be dark.
The noises are loud.
Walls paper thin.
Pillows won't muffle the sound.
It haunts me in my dreams
and when I awake,
I see the bullet holes,
the kids with bruises and black eyes.
The scars mean so much more.
"My dad beats me because my mom's a whore..."
conversations I wish i could ignore.
Oh there is so much violence.
I miss the sound of silence.

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