The world of nothing meaningful or less. poem by Margaret Leora workman; Warponie art

Thank you for displaying your actions, I need glasses to find them. You stated your hypothetical so that I could presume your death. I looked in your head, but found nothing instead. Your curtains are the pinnacle of your stead, your living space. Wait, is that what you already said? Please can I have your hammer? The one that states your life, maybe it states mine. It states your tears, the blister of your years. Your feet walk on, but only half on that lawn. Despair nothing of coldness and clay, remember your actions are on display full of hay and play, but never could we say that you only had that day of turmoil and deceit. The lie is on your receipt . They have a tent that floats out on the lake. Thank goodness for her sake. Don’t let her know that it will sink before you can blink. No I don’t have a lifesaver because I left it under the paver and no one wants to ruin their day to pick it up and throw it out, but what can I say? Please don’t pout. she is a lout. Everyone agrees that her life is full of facial bees and left-handed knees, and those air rifle BBs that chased her down at my command. No, I am not sorry to see the noose hanging and swaying out on that limb, waiting and gaining traction. No, I don’t think it’s a sin. It’s so hot on that tin.  by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art