If walls could talk, they’d chew me up
and spit me out; they’d tell all my secrets
and close all the doors in the house
and lock the windows too; those walls know
most things about me; they’ve heard
my private cries, whispered curses, and roars
of frustrations and periods of dragged-out anger.
Nevertheless, they’ve heard my praise and worship,
they’ve heard me praying in my tiny closet;
if my walls could talk, I’d be in a heap of trouble;
I’ve splashed a lot of dirt on those walls
(I’m still washing off the filth).