drafted-picture post ancient book-find stream of thought.

at my estate sale,
i want them to look for
what i couldn't have hid
underneath the floorboards.
i meant my prayers to be
storytellers and agenda-less apostles.
they're invisible,
that's why you can't find them.
what price to you sell
attempts towards adequacy
(or passion) at?
with the profit you make
when my knick knacks
and breath are sold,
buy back from or for me
the moments when i forgot myself enough
to learn what to live for
be warned -
you'll have to barter hard.
morticians dissect things for a living.
so surprise them
when you have motives that
can't be torn apart.
be the converse of my
weaker moments,
only steal the songs that are left
in my lungs
and afterwards,
seal the casket
so my monotones remain
myths.
would you be
so kind?

the beginning will change, the middle will be thrown out, and the ending doesn't exist.

sounds like a great start to a poem! written on index cards in pencil, because i got sick of every notebook and piece of paper and pen that i own.

you believed
that wealth should
be measured
in syllables
that love should
be spelled independent
of music
but hearts are not
like me,
and if you think
they're deaf then
i will have no problem
naming you a fool,
so throw rocks at my window.
i may be
too fearful
to answer.
but be reassured
that i keep it closed.
i'm waiting for
the pebbles to
develop percussion
and i don't mean to ask so much
i promise,
i will be as dedicated
as the tides
and far warmer.
just assure me
you are made of
reality.
i want an apparition
of more than just
fictionalizations.
this is a love poem
for the man
i hope to meet
but am planning on bypassing
while i'm too distracted
by my
fence building.
the letters are small
and i am outlining
this hope
in pencil:
permanent is something
i haven't yet been given
the chance
to learn.