Racketeered

The decadence of written word will not suffer fate dead and buried.

His warm body is working to rid my heart of its permafrost shell.

I never use a bookmark because the ability to remember page numbers makes me feel accomplished. Performing mundane tasks perfectly gives the illusion of perfection, and I've spent too much time chasing perfection to have failed so miserably. I prefer classical to modern, organic to processed, and black to white, but I'm living a life of contradiction, and sorting through a closet of white shirts. My jeans are just a little too loose in places, and my socks aren't anywhere near long enough to pass over my ankles; much like my taste in people, my taste in clothing is just all wrong. I'm scared of falling, in love or otherwise, so I find all o

The decadence of written word will not suffer fate dead and buried.

And so begins the trip to Hell my dear, Sinners will pay the price of life's high time. Hardened souls face their just desserts and fear: Twisting, turning, road's light grows dark in crime. The pain runs deep as our hearts fall deeper, Punished men, girls and boys, pure in their prime; Meeting the man who holds a sharp sweeper, With bones for hands and holes for eye sockets, Black robes, sipping fresh blood; meet Hell's keeper. They cry in vain as he empties pockets, "Forget ones you once loved" he says smiling, "I feed on hate; wear that in your lockets." He chips at his bone, all fresh from filing, "Hope not damned sou