Floor is cold and bare.
The silent echoes of life
Doused by the screeching laugh of a ghost.
Walls are dusty.
They smell of urine and decadence.
I step upon a fallen shard of glass.
It cuts into my bare foot with raw pain
But I do not feel it.
The pain is nothing to the sorrow and remorse
That inhabit my heavy heart.
The oven timer blinks.
It mocks me, flashing 12:00 over and over.
The wooden dining table remains, rotting.
One leg has fallen over.
Standing pathetically on three legs, it begs to be put out of misery.
But I am powerless to do so.
I find the couch I loved two years ago.
Instead of love, hated boils inside.
Memories tear at my eyes, begging to be seen.
I close them, but vivid pictures remain.
Memories of living in this wretched unholy house.
There is no place like home.
Here is a poem about reincarnation and death and socks that I threw into the washing machine.
I wrote it while sitting in front of the washing machine watching everything spin and I thought of how sad those socks must be. Stains on shirts are like memories and the washing machine brutally and violently rips these memories away from the beings. It is a sad thought to think. I was crying as I wrote this. One sentence in this paragraph is a lie and it is not this one.
They threw me into the machine
Smothered with others of my kind
They set the evil thing in motion
And it shook and it spun
And then the water started pouring in
The dreadful water
It had the bubbles that stung
Oh no oh god
I feel the door open and they pull me out
The world is bright
I know not my past
But I rise with sparkles to greet the world.