Silence is unheard of,
At 42 Crescent Avenue.
Laying awake in the early hours,
With a pillow over his head;
Wishing for it to block out the voices from the living room,
Or censor his breathing -
He cries,
As he begs his parents to stop digging their claws into each other\'s skin,
To tear away what they've both become.

Mother's crying at the way life fails to please her;
Father raises his voice,
To cut away her tears to melt away the guilt that he's failing to provide;
Failing to love the conflict of interest,
They call a marriage.

In a cycle of arguements extended from the week previous,
Escape is the only thing that even taunts his mind;
To which, he hides the bottles and dispensed pill containers under his bed.
Psychologist told him to reach to his comfort zone;
Told him to play videogames,
But the television set was broken as he barely escaped the hands of his father,
As he pleaded:
"I don't want to die!"
So he collects the glass,
And places it amongst his bedsheets so he can bleed into the night,
So God can see something more than tears and anger,
And grants him his prayers.

In the silence of the night,
When the parasites sleep from their feed,
He wanders the back garden to the garden shed.
Taking his father's rifle,
He presses it to his lips;
The scars on his back bleed with anticipation,
As he sweats all that he could cry.
Pulling the trigger,
God grants him his wish;
His release,
So that he may die.

Mother was hospitalised,
And Father locked away in prison.
Sleeping soundly,
The ghost of a boy in the empty home smiles;
For he found salvation without naroctics,
But in all splender he relishes the moment;
His release,
From the flesh that had binded them all.