Some homes are the perfect friend, womb, safe harbor or hiding place when one is needed. Others are nothing more than neutral spaces to sleep, eat, and store your belongings in. The last and worst kind of dwelling doesn’t even deserve to be called home because it offers no comfort, rest or shelter. You get the feeling that if it were a person, it not only resents your presence, but would likely turn you in to the authorities if you were in trouble. Bad moods darken in these places; despair grows like bacteria.
I wish I wrote the way I thought;
With maddening hunger.
I’d write to the point of suffocation.
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns,
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing.
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should.