Fragments of thoughts trickle onto pieces of paper, or digital tablets, because we are iPad Kids that grew up and couldn’t afford a house. I find homes in people. I tried to find a home in you, but you wouldn’t let me in. It’s okay though, everything happens for a reason and I actually believe that, unlike people who regurgitate the cliché to give them some sort of purpose to the adversity they endure. I regurgitate verbose like vomit chunked with virtual word puddles, making way for seamless slimy syntax. Metaphysical poems materialize like tapeworms swimming in carnal canals of grammatical morphemes and sentence structure. Hello words, I am creator. In this word I get to be God. In this world, you chose me.
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