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The Home

They stumble around humming silent, mad little tunes to themselves.
Needles of solace pierce their skin, as they recline, watching Lassie.
I look at the shattered pieces of my psyche I just hurled against the wall.
The pieces gaze up at me, seemingly unimpressed with my rage.
The holes in the white walls mock me with their inanimate grins. 
The remains of  sheet rock dangle like broken teeth.
I wipe the blood from my hands; an assault by an angry mirror...
I look around to see denial, but panic is there instead.
These are all dreams on the couch. Dreams where hungry jackals live.
They pry out my memories with their forceps and guilt.
Restrained, I utter no words. 
There are others like me.
They all mumble and scream, meandering about in their gowns.	
		
They drone on about Jesus and vanilla sundaes with whipped cream.
They look out the window with no clue of where they are.
Perhaps someday I will venture out past the oak trees.
There used to be a world, just past those trees.
I wonder... I wonder if it’s still there.

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