he acts so tough but i watched him weep as she sang, after when she came out in her black dress looking so grown, he wept as he held her
the poor illiterate fool
he wonders why he is alone without seeing he is his own worst enemy
so sentimental, just an open book
no one wants a book that is no longer novel, that the pages are tear stained odes to a she he will never actually have a chance to hold
we need to end him
put ourselves out of his misery
send him to the farm where all the bad dogs go, where he can run free and chase dreams all day
euthanize the poor man’s poet
he’ll do it to himself eventually, he’s not getting better, i’m just biding my time
he is near delirious as is
i overheard him whisper before bed last night, a plaintive ode to the forces he knows don’t exist
i chuckled as he wheezed some half hearted prayer to the nothingness
it was nearly as bad as his rhymes
all we need is to give him just enough rope to hang himself with
a sliver of hope to slit his own throat
then silence
no more polluting the world of poetry with prosaic longing
he’s at the edge
just a little
push
quiet the fool and the world shall rejoice
just a matter of time
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
This is so good like a play on stage. I laughed and yet the content is unlaughablely sad.
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Well
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umm. frozen moment hard to explain
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you are so good with the words. i enjoy the way you make them play ❤
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thank you, i like the way you make them play as well. we should start a commune for broken artists to sip coffee and rail against a world we have no place in.
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i so want to do that…but the broken artists are hard to capture. they slip away like whispers when i try to lure them. maybe i will just make some coffee & pretend i don’t want their company.
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hmmm. You would think the bleak hopelessness of joy in this world would cause us all to drift together somehow.
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or maybe it makes us that much more easily distracted by sparkly things…if only to prove to ourselves that all that glitters is not gold thereby reinforcing our bleak hopelessness. a morbid murder of desolate crows. (i might be over-thinking it, i am actively avoiding motherhood at the moment)
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misery loves company. Say it is a symposium on love and all of bitter fools will gather to sling barbs. come for the mocking stay for the coffee and company.
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