It's About Conceiving.

The darkness itself is not my friend-
my house is my only haven.
I am trapped in the barbs of wire,
lost on winds of time.
I keep myself isolated.
Trying to permeate through the fences of
confusion,
I have become a master at the art of being alone.

Alone. Everyone wants me to be alone-
from bakers to Irishmen,
who turn and toil in their moss beds.
The wind moans quietly.
Some people are angry because I eat.
Some people are angry because they tell lies.
Some people are homeless-dead, and
broken.

My friends drink. Everyone drinks every single day,
and don't know what is happening to their bodies.
Only the fools know.
The rest conceive.