As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...