[My father chops]
My father chops
firewood out in
the cold while I
sit inside
writing poetry
and one act
plays.
Like father,
like son;
like hell.
Love poem
I’ve been making appointments
with the universe, for us to meet
in an open field, but they keep
getting cancelled. So now,
I’m putting on a concert.
I’m putting on a parade.
There needs to be a marching band playing
inside of a pink or yellow blimp with your name on it,
as well as some sort
of tasteful explosion.
I want you to see these
things, and hear what I
feel
sung
to you.
I love you.
I know it isn’t mutual. I just want a chance.
I want you to hear it perfectly.
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