who's there?

who's there?

 

i can trust no living creature, and there are even a few objects in my room that have been giving me suspicious glances. but i am soon to remove those into my closet, the only place i fear to set foot in. i am starting to get rid of my books slowly, one by one, as i read them. the little O's are starting to grow eyes when I'm not looking. they spy, i burn. most people don't know this but books make great kindling. while on my fire i can hear the crooked G's howling in pain. but it is the faint sort of yell that only i can hear. not my doctor, not my psychiatrist, only I. i have prepared a poem for the reader. my skills in rhyme rhythm and verse have greatly improved over the years.

 

who's there? i ask to the wind

who's there?

the wind will send

a message that will bend

my very soul

 

it's a work in progress, but it has potential. to the reader there may be some puzzlement onto why i say "soul" as opposed to something along the lines of, "depths of my mind." and to the reader i say "you do not have the poetic skill that i possess, you will never understand." and that is why i will not publish this poem by itself but this entire passage. without the crucial information provided in this whole article people will never understand the "writes" and wrongs of literature. the reader may have just noticed the fantastic pun i have just slipped into my genius work. i always need something lighthearted after something tragic. i have cut myself for every time tragedy comes after something tragic. its not how the universe runs. so the blood that runs from my cuts will dry in the cracks of the fabric of time and space, mending it. before i end this passage i would like the reader to notice how eye opening it has been for them. how wonderful i really am. thank you for reading.