this is my home. amongst the juxtaposition of letters i am better. one with words and phrases i can compose statements of amazement. fact or fiction my addiction is penned with fruition. jot, note, scribble, scribe, rhyme, write, or read; this is my home and i shall never leave.
I hate this old house. The wood creaks like my old bones. Convictions, dreams, anxieties, estimations, reveries, and intents all burn crimson. I wish I could say the same of this wretched asylum. Nothing ever works at the appropriate moment. The electricity flutters like a bird taking its first flight. I am amazed it is still erect. Every room reminds me of a wasted life, shattered by ill-conceived notions of seamless attachments. For what. For who. For lust. For Love. Or neither. Absolute shell of a home. Absolute shell of a man. Its 3:45pm. Friday. The sun intrudes stealthily through my blinds.
I acutely removed the left sock from my left foot and place it near the bucket. I repeated the same for the opposing. Folding each pant leg in agreement with the pair, stepping into the water, I reach for my blade. Slicing the toaster cord (not a piece of toast) I fray the ends to expose the wire. I plug it in, take a deep breath and hold tight.
First red. Then, white, followed by a piercing black. Nothing.
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