The Out-of-Order Writer!
Thrashing around in agony, I am an injured run-over animal; slumped in this gutter dying. Internally bleeding for eternity, defensiveness is my primitive art. Keep your distance, my disease may spread and you may contract my illness, being broken. My heart is still in this race for life and when I drive down whoever was behind the wheel of the metaphorical car, I am wheeling over their heads.
This is the worst day of my life and I am carrying a smile in my palms to upset the dark clouds people have conjured over me with society’s black magic. Hunched at the side of this road the rain hocks at my indecent aura let this paper protect me while I root evil in the puddles of bloody muddy memories. I am simply a death-dealer, now who wants to share this half kilo bag of evil?
I am being held…
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