Where do you come from? Do the children break the windows of the houses

Where do you come from? Do the children break the windows of the houses that no one lives in? Do you have bad days? The trees, the leaves, the late nights. The cold, the dark, the night time. The streets that breathe in our names are shameless places. Fingernails all filled with soil and sorrow. We will break the fence or we will climb it. (New apartment complexes rising). Tear down your billboards and all your street lights. Were standing up on stilts while the ground below is shaking and we can see the skin from our sunburn flake away. And we'd never have bad days. They'd move like months. We're keeping these years tucked away. Like celebrated zip codes. Like a neighbor with a shortcut through their backyard. Holding onto something whether it be a postcard or a purpose. Where are you, and where have you run to? Why don't you just come home?