Home cooked food is a distant blessing of the past through diet of homegrown delights and chain of smoke ridden thoughts.

I ridicule myself for being alone but isolation is only containment for the pure black gold misery being pumped from the final reserves of my utter most core.

I’ve lived without your existence and it’s not living, Christ is it not living.

If you took me to confessions the priest would feast on the genuine rawness of the predicament I have found no comfort in.

Through the hazed environment that consumes me I have found but only miserable antics.