The tortured artist. He really does not hold the wish
to meet you. He really does not wish to go outside
because going outside he really does not miss
whatsoever. Inside his home he would rather hide.
The daily paper. It is without fail left at his door step each
day. He never really does go out to retrieve them and
so they lay in a cluttered heap untouched and unwanted;
not a single one having reached its’ owners hand.
The dirty windows. They are difficult to see through with all
the filth and grime. This is entirely appropriate for he does not
wish to look outside. The grass on his front lawn has grown so tall;
they reach the windows; insects live within it; it has begun to rot.
The dark clouds. They shadow his world day after day after
day. Every single day of the year. The dark clouds meet him
with darkness and rain and gloom. It takes away laughter
and smiles. The tortured artist prefers the life of a phantom.
to meet you. He really does not wish to go outside
because going outside he really does not miss
whatsoever. Inside his home he would rather hide.
The daily paper. It is without fail left at his door step each
day. He never really does go out to retrieve them and
so they lay in a cluttered heap untouched and unwanted;
not a single one having reached its’ owners hand.
The dirty windows. They are difficult to see through with all
the filth and grime. This is entirely appropriate for he does not
wish to look outside. The grass on his front lawn has grown so tall;
they reach the windows; insects live within it; it has begun to rot.
The dark clouds. They shadow his world day after day after
day. Every single day of the year. The dark clouds meet him
with darkness and rain and gloom. It takes away laughter
and smiles. The tortured artist prefers the life of a phantom.