The Walls

My day ends, almost every day, With a question of why. The purpose of my birth, the reason I breathe, Is something I ponder upon, often, unconscious. I have always known a fact, I keep it to myself. Every general or questioning conversation Requires a speaker and listener, The speaker asks and the listener replies. But who is listening to my demise? I look around my room for one last time, To see the concrete walls held together by silence. I feel afraid, what if they are the ones listening? Do they just have ears, or even tongues to speak? I close my eyes and clear my mind as soon as possible, Deciding to think about the topic the following night, And praying the walls never get their freedom of speech and expression.