The Radio

 
Living in the cabinet of a radio. The vacuum tubes glowed yellow when heated up. Listening to the sound effects of "Inner Sanctum's," squeaking door. Then the scratching. Later, to learn that the prior owner committed suicide because he heard voices. Changing the station and finding blood dripping off a knob.

"If a body meets a body coming through the rye."
  
Philosophy open's eyes to the struggle on the dark side of my pen with a language barrier between the walls and nevermore. As human nature takes its course with a frontal lobotomy of dreams.    

Looking out the door of a thousand knocks, no one was there. The world as we knew it was no longer fertile and green. It ended with the invasion of the zombies hepped up on cocaine. I was halfway between insanity and make-believe choo-choo trains, proceeding over the trestle of my grave.

The weather of the night lay still with my breath of insomnia's aftertaste of death's pillow talk, silently inhaling the ghost of my past. Dripping caffeine.  

Mom had to pry me out of the radio while scolding me.