My Poems

whoever came up with the idea that communication could be an art was probably identifiably genius. and died young

for abstract

opinion.

 

how could you be, moody merchant?

you, who have roses growing out of your neck

speaking of which, there is a house

i would like to buy.

it is the one across the way with

gables the color of blisters

that looks like a trailer.

it is where we might finally

meet halfway.

i only pretend to like

settling for less.

how could you be moody, merchant?

you, who could have anything you wanted.

i wish you would stick around

every once in a while.

but i am not attatched.

in fact i tell you so every day.

met with spaciness which i would like

to buy from you.

there is also something i would like

to tell you about my family.

there is only so much noise

i can take.

i do like, whenever possible

to avoid confrontation

so i am writing you a letter

which you may have noticed by now.

i mean to say goodbye, moody merchant

and don't expect me to

stop here again.

i am tired of prepaid answers.