Oswald sat in the corner of his bedroom
It was Tuesday...June something.
He felt manic, he felt nothing.
His pen keeps writing the same 8 lines
his eyes kept weeping
his heart stopping then racing
and his pen just keeps on writing
the same 8 lines:
The South is where I'm staying now,
And freedom is the American flag
the internet,a baseball game
Loneliness so vast,that even the greatest poets
fail to write it.
Because you can't describe hell
ever
when you are there.