at least there’s bad poetry

such contrived complexities,
these dreary dreams of loneliness,
standing crumbling from eons past.

No, i will not look at the clouded sky,
nor remember the Dandelion’s wish,
but instead content myself to wasteland
that i might decorate simply
like a frontier wife,
waiting to die.

Oh, we’ll meet on border fences,
say goodbye a few more times,
dance under the full moon – Alone, please.

Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind