I Write Poetry

“Hell hast no home hast no place like my own. Never quiet. Wake realm feeling like a work of fiction. Remnants of sulphur and ash dance through my teeth teasing my tongue. Some words leave a bad taste. The ones that can’t be washed with soap or salt. Dragging also these chains. So noisy. The cacophony overwhelming like traffic on holiday. Relief only available when dry conversions emerge. How lovely it’d be to be free..”