I think one of the couches in my parent's front room is haunted.
I do not know what they want, or why they will not go away.
I just know they're in trouble.
This girl keeps crying. I wish she'd stop. I don't want to listen to it anymore.
Though there is something artistic about being haunted.
Behold: an exercise in abstract poetry:
If
My inexperience should speak
And, nothing doubting,
Long-- openly vowing--effortlessly
You'd open up.
Justifiably, our shibboleth: hurrying up and
Dying, asserts value is depleted,
Near exhausted. Lo! somethingness offends nothingness.
I don't know why people are so offended by the abstract. There is so much meaning to be pulled out of the abstract when one is willing to put in the time. From whence cometh this offense anyway? As if everything did not start at as abstract as can be. Those First Letters that we learned as children. Did they mean anything to us then? Just symbols on a page. It was not until we applied ourselves that we unlocked the secret, and we were immensely gratified. We have just forgotten how to look at the basics, take it one letter at a time.
But then, who has time?
Besides myself.
I assure you, if they do not stop their haunting, they are going to make me lose my mind.
