my poems are so good that they're bad. they are infinitely deep and meaningful and therefore don't mean anything at all.
Some find me amusing
Some find me bemusing.
Others find me vexing
Or even perplexing.
I don't care what you think
Unless I do.
But I mustn't look down
And start feeling blue.
Here is a poem I composed for you,
Like the ripples in the laces when I tie my shoes.
The knobby knuckles,
The seat belt buckle.
Introspeculating lobby beds.
The bumps in the road were on my head,
Disconnecting me from the thread.
maybe i should just press delete
to make my words disappear
because i'm not a poet.
Greetings, good sir, please, may you be troubled to donate your time and attention, so that I might share with you a little nugget of knowledge? Rather, a packet of information?
Well perchance you have not considered this hypothesis,
but I do belive you may or may not be a natural born idot.
A natural born idiot, my good sir?! Why, my heavens, I do belive I most certainly have considered that proposition! In fact, I consider it every day!
a conversation between two dapper gentlemen