Skeletons of Suburbia

This was inspired by a story I heard once.

I
Passion hurts.
To be passionate, you must leave something behind.
It is rewarded by spitting and evil, haunting stares.
Death waits at every corner.
Muscles ache where they never have before.
Your fragile body longs for comfort.
The city lights keep you safe and far from danger, but not for long.
This is where thousands make their home.

II
My house was clean.
It was far from the nightmare of my past.
I no longer woke up to hear the orchestra of death's devastating screams.
I was no longer called those hurtful, degrading names.
But something wasn't right.
I needed to leave safety behind.
My bags were packed and I hit the streets.

III
Up and down those roads I walked.
No where to lay my head.
No money to stop the hunger pains.
I looked into their eyes for a little compassion.
But there was none.
They walked away and went on with life.
No longer did I have my comfortable bed.
No longer did I have the sweet lullaby of my mother.

IV
I just kept moving.
Kept pursuing passion.
I am broken.
Abandoned.
Lost.

V
No one has to care for me.
I was their product.
Their guinea pig.
I am a Skeleton of Suburbia.