Living in this infamous informal institute,
Feeling insulted, having to induce identity onto the inflexible.
Impatiently await the impending impediment.
Emerging from an impaled death is the impact of imperceptible imperfection.
Watch as they indulge interminably.
They leave intervals resulting from incomprehensible self-interest,
Letting interiors die of intoxication.
They introduce their lives to death,
Inviting others to share their indistinct pain and invincible misery.
This image imagined is an insignificant, infinitesimal imitation of the impoverish life innocent eyes have seen.
All of this is improper.
I act on impulse to call this an inarticulate hell.
This is life.
By Jack Thomas