Another sad story.
He places his hand against his dresser drawer.
Not sure exactly what he is looking for.
He takes a glance at the fractured mirror.
Noticing only his flaws, never his good points.
The flaws come in flocks, the perfections come in silver and gold boxes.
the perfections tend to arrive late at his door.
He stares away at his figure, wondering why it was all put on him,
Did he do something wrong? Was imperfection his only crime?
Why must the wrath of insanity continue on this way?
The swirling dreams, once so colorful and close.
Have now faded away and turned a solid grey.
He makes his way down to the den seeing only his uncle, lying on the couch. With a liquior bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other..he stones his day away. He makes his way to the office, only a room filled with the scent of terror. So many things that have happened here..so little room to tear. He crawls his way back in bed..takes a few advil. then sleeps the remaining day away.