the bad writer

The bad writer

 

 

I was laying on the carpet my ashtray overflowing and an episode of oz on hold.

A picture of Paul was staring at me from the wall,

 Reminding me that I was on lock down.

I was dying to write.

The dirty dishes on top of the fridge can tell that ive been more than sluggish.

The house is technically a pig pen.

Candles and glasses from last night still on the floor.

The smell of the warmth still heating the room.

 

Wires of my laptop snaking the carpet like some erotic serphants.

So write I did.