I Grow Tired Of My Poetry.

She said something about me being a good listener. I don't know, I wasn't paying attention.

I loved how the universe manifested itself as her. And for that brief moment in billions of years, I was there for it.

Joke

I asked Siri a question and she told me, " I don't know! Who the fuck I look like!? Google?"

She's on my mind.

She got there through the ear canal.

She's in my heart.

I think she got there through the lungs.

Secrets always taste better,

as they leave the mouth.

It is written in the stars above - that we shall never meet,

any more than lovely moon - will ever meet the beach.

To gaze upon her pale shade - mirrored off the sea,

and have her waves break on the shore - for all eternity.

Eagerly I pray for tides - like the thirsty pray for drink,

to hear the music from the foam - and sea's tranquility.

I feel her pulling on my heart - with all her gravity,

a gentle language that she sends - spoken just for me.

Yet it's written in the stars above - that we shall never meet,

but when I feel her moonlit glow - I'll wait here happily.

She has phases like the moon,

each wax and wane equally predictable.

I live by a lunar calendar.

Do you ever think that if a dog sees a seal sunbathing on the rocky shore he would think, "Holy shit! A mermaid!"?

I use to like riding the metro around the city with with no predetermined destination.

Idea.

If I was Burger King I'd make a better Whopper and call it The Whoppest.