Pick a street
Pick any you please
Cranford, Canterbury, or Ramsey
Why, they’re all just the same
Manicured lawns brimming with evergreen,
Flowers flawlessly placed according to man’s desire,
And the scurrying of frantic footsteps,
That dare not open the front door,
But choose to open the garage door, and close it swiftly behind them,
Removing the horror of allowing just a peek into their home
Successfully burying the secrets they try desperately to conceal
As if the greatest sin,


flaw,



or error,
Is to allow a plastered on smile to crumble
because your house bellows with the echoes of feuds,
To permit a tear to make a home on your cheek because the loneliness of heartbreak is battering you,
And reveal to you or me, that they are, in fact, human.