Trimmed bushes.

Perfectly manicured lawns.

Clean painted siding.

Suburban utopia.

A place I call my home.

My home: it is my home.

What is a home?

A pretty little house?

A family unit?

Friends and nice neighbors?

Perhaps.

Perhaps it can be.

But not mine.

My home is where I learned to fly.

It’s the place I flew from—

A nest left behind.

This suburban utopia

Was a cage whose bars I broke.