What do you think of me poem?

Fuck you for making me turn my head

It was okay

it be good matey I'll publish ye

Sweet. That'll be good. I'd like that.

>>9128230

Slightly too naïve, needs more deconstruction and innuendo but I like the jest. This is the kind of style I prefer:

Grapes still in the fridge
September, been there
Remember, one sitting
The ridge of forgetful despair

Vague woes, days of worry
When all wonder, all right
Shelved, chilly nights
In a rotten doom

Winter was not made for us
Time rots, how fast
Slip into the past
Am I to follow shortly?

"again and again"

dropped, too cringe.

Lel

>>9128337
You made it worse, faggot

william carlos williams slightly shifting in his grave: "o so thats what delayed gratification means"

>>9128230
I swear I've read this before

Grapes still in the fridge
or freezer, freezing, its always cold
September, been there
done that, every year, a good same, a new bad
Remember, one sitting
forget, always the same, always different, know, not, remember, forget
The ridge of forgetful despair
of worryful, of frightful, of frigid freezing in the night, walking by the lampost of derision, across the stark pavement of solitude, down the alley of deceit, across the bridge of blissfully unaware
Vague woes, weary days of worry
linger, crumble all crumbles, to be built up again, by some other, more fritful, and fit, for the dubious dootyful duty of dealing with and without this pair and that pear, in the fridge? or the freezer? for ment? meant for... me? shall we split a pear? 2 pairs of pears? or one for you and me?
When all wonder, all right
all is not right, when all wonder at night, alright,
Shelved, chilly nights
rhythemed in displayed breeze wave of too cold air to breathe and breath of snow, crystalizing the styles of heaven just but for a few, motions of notions fluttering towards the floor, or is it the door, and now its too late, how quickly the beautiful melts, and damn it all that is good too!
In a rotten doom
how the water pools in the corner of the room, so that I may slurp my sup, and taintle my plums, and hope this decay will decry shrooms!

Winter was not made for us
or at least we have made ourselves unwell for it,
Time rots, how fast
how slow, can one know, when the seconds creak and ache like hours, and they say the wounds heal, but thats the flesh disappearing, in this case
Slip into the past
Am I to follow shortly?
if not, I will meet you there, by some old big oak tree, in the meadow, of a field, in the spring, or summer, with the flowers, by the pond, and there will be no grapes in my fridge, freezer nor frigid heart, for they will be all for you, both in my arms, and we will crush them between us, and sip our commodious communion, of wine, like grown men