Our mouths are clogged with lazy abbreviations and shortened versions of intelligence.

Hands bound with all the cords needed to charge and sync and transfer data to our brains, empty of original thought.

Our storage is at max capacity with the lies we're fed and the senseless information we're expected to regurgitate to earn our badge of Respected Member of Society.

But you have an opportunity to do things with purpose. Don't jam your pockets with phone numbers and calendars and one hundred versions of the same picture.

If your pockets are heavy, may they be weighted with the rocks you find while you walk beside the river that calms you.

And if your eyes grow tired, may it be from staring into the distance at the mountains you were born to climb.

He rains down like lightning
and he strikes your sand,
burns your beaches into hardened stone,
and blasts away your vacation,
leaving you with nothing but the memory
of rotting fruit.

One empty nightstand and a closet half-full,
dim the lights and don't bother
to draw back the covers before you
surrender to the time.
The windows are drab and unclean
because you've lost the ambition to see clearly.
The sink is cluttered with the ghosts
of your last meal together and the rotting smell
filling the kitchen
is your favorite reminder that you didn't really
enjoy her cooking anyway.

Does her honey make every meal taste sweeter?
If not, time will break you.
Every love has a little sweet,
a little sour -
bitterness can boil over.

If she doesn't try everything before you,
she won't figure out what you really like.
And if she doesn't know your tastes,
how will she ever make your mouth water?

Do her eyes drool at the sight of you? No?
Then she's probably reading the menus
at every red light.
She could be drinking from another man's glass
and drying her hands on his towel
while you are too busy looking in the mirror.