Home is solitude where I only go to lay my head. Pictures hung on the walls in my perfect home portray bygone times. My house is empty now and as quiet as a mausoleum. When I come home, no one’s there, and no one seems to care I’m all alone, and so lonely I could die.
Alone in the dark, in my bed that’s cold and empty without my wife, who used to fill it with warmth and love before she left and took my kids to stay in another place. Loneliness wounds my heart and I can’t sleep. I lift the blind and an explosion of light from a ten thousand kilowatt sun sends bright blinding beams of light bursting through cracked and broken window panes, illuminating dust-filled rooms.
Lying in bed I think of better days when the sun wasn’t so bright because it filtered through my love, and dust filled beams didn’t float through all my empty rooms. When kids and dogs romped throughout before my misguided love caused my kids to go hungry, and my dogs to starve to death.
When my wife left me, I wasn’t upset until I discovered she took it all. I begged and pleaded that she come home, but she knew what I wanted and refused. I see how wrong I was. So if I had it to do all over again, I’d never let her hold my cocaine.
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