My Home Ghost

This is my home. Winds howling though the wood, it chills me to the bone. This is my home. Air stale and decrepit. This is my home. Laundry piled up at my door and leaving me wringing my hands. This is my home. Ghost of memories past living inside me. This is my home. I live here.

Something Old and Something Sorry

Your infamy was nothing short of the state of sense and the sense of state. The grotesque beings which you scoff upon are the very ones you are; with your talk of space and ideology you've become nothing but a prototypical being, with all your meaningless nonconforming, and repetitive arguments about nothing.
You said it. You mean it. You want it. You've got it.

(I don't ever want to lay eyes on you again.)