time

Another long day, another night of reluctance
Some days are easier, some are harder
I'll whisper those three words again later
Hoping that tomorrow, it will be neither

small steps

Love is in that someone who’ll make you smile when you wake up in the morning. Whose hair you want to smell. The hand you want to hold in your sleep. The forehead you want to kiss. It’s in the waist where your hand belongs. Whose body fits snugly with yours in a cuddle.

Love is the place where you’ve both found your safe spot in this big, big world. Of unspoken promises and silent declarations. It’s in sharing a meal and two straws in a big glass. Or lips stained with ice cream and fussing over the colour of your M&Ms.

Love is the willingness to be completely stupid. To let go and remember how it’s like to be a kid again. It’s in pillow fights, tickling matches, piggyback rides and silly dances. It’s in the person who makes you pinch yourself.

Love is in warmer nights and breezier evenings. It’s in sharing the perfect song for rides with the windows down. It’s in hopping on and going nowhere. When you arrive, it’s at that place where the silence comforts you like how you remember it can. And how it always will.

bicycles

It's like how you learn to ride a bike. You get on and there's be a hand helping you balance. It feels like your own little trip to the moon. You're really just a few pedals away from anywhere.

But of course, before all that, you learn how to fall on your sorry ass. And how to get up again.

And then, sooner or later, you'll be able to leave the hand behind.

But you never wonder how the damn bike works. It doesn't need to make sense. You just want to pedal away, without wondering about chains and nuts and wheels. All you know is that it's supposed to take you away and obey your legs as they push further and further, till you miss what you've left behind.

And that's when it'll screw you over. It breaks down innocently enough. And you start wondering how it works and how to fix it. A little groove here, a piece of metal there. And then it all makes sense!

At that point of realisation, it's too late. You're gonna have to push the bugger home, and when you eventually do, you'll see that what you left behind have in turn, left you. Gone because you did first. But before you know all that, on the slow walk home, you're thinking that you'd rather it not make any sense.

microsoft word is my best friend

I have a spell cheque function
It came with my PC
It plainly marques for my revue
Mistakes I cannot sea.

I strike a key and type a word
And weight for it two say
Weather I am wrong or write
It shows me strait away.

As soon as a mistake is maid
It nose before two long
And I can put the error rite
Its never, ever wrong.

I have run this poem threw it
I am shore you're pleased to no
It's letter perfect to the end
My spell cheque told me sew.

- Anonymous