Three words that will never be heard by any love-sick poet:
Get over it.

I know why the caged bird sings.

Speaking to ghosts.

Something is strictly better than Nothing.

For fun. Anyone care to play croquet?

Still drunk. Is "lamer" even a real word?

Nothing flows without holes.

"Jesus Christ, what happened?"

Yeap.

I know how to read, if nothing else.

Watch out for that heel

Choose a side.

Memories aren't made in heaven

"They say it’s like the ‘me’ generation. It’s not. The arrogance is taught, or it was cultivated. It’s self-conscious. That’s what it is. It’s conscious of self. Social media - it’s just the market’s answer to a generation that demanded to perform so the market said, here - perform. Perform everything to each other, all the time for no reason. It’s prison - its horrific. It’s performer and audience melded together. What do we want more than to lie in our bed at the end of the day and just watch our life as a satisfied audience member. I know very little about anything. But what I do know is that if you can live your life without an audience, you should do it."
- Bo Burnham

I won't give up

Single life mentality (in a nutshell.)

So much better than being your friend.

I'll be the one moping with hope.

While I'm Alive

A home.

And you know it

"Maybe you should see a psychiatrist."
"I would just mess with their head."

I thought of a good one earlier about the difference between appealing to the masses from appealing to a more eclectic audience, but then when I tried to think of it a second time, it completely eluded me. I'd even gotten as far as thinking of a name for it (which always comes last.) I was going to title it "Niche"

Stupid Fish

One mess of a messiah

"Poor old Michael Finnegan. Begin again!"

The ride's gotta end sometime

My fifteen-year-old self would try his best to beat the **** out of me for this.

Such crap.

I had this dream the other night:

We were in Guam again, but it wasn't the Guam I'd known. This was a futuristic, skyscraper-clad Guam. All my shipmates were there, even the ones who've left since, and we were having a great time. (Most of that island thrives on catering to showing Sailors a good time.)

But I soon discovered that it wasn't just my shipmates there with me. My old friends from Florida were there too. Immersed in the locals. They kept popping up everywhere we'd go, and I'd introduce my ship fam to them, and they were getting along famously.

But then, I bumped into an old girlfriend, on the sidewalk as I was making my way to a liquor store.

"Nicole?" I said,
but she just shook her head.

"It's Rebecca now."

She'd changed her hair, and her style, and she had a new man, and it seems she'd made a new life out there, down in future Guam.

I walked on.

On the way back, I bumped into my friend (the one I'd once called a coward,) and he was hanging out with two of my old Florida buddies. They were all wearing matching outfits they'd picked up at a shop. Soccer kits consisting of black shorts and yellow-and-black vertically striped jersey tops. I was glad, and a bit surprised, to see they were getting along. They were quite drunk.

Then the ships came in. The liberty call was over. It was time to go back out to sea.

Only, these weren't Navy surface ships. These were futuristic air carriers, vaguely reminiscent of Lego sets I used to build when I was a kid.

They were utterly massive, and they didn't come sailing in, but floating down from the sky. It was a spectacle. The streets were lined with cheering crowds as six giant air carriers emerged from the clouds.

I pointed out one that looked like some kind of paleontological whale ancestor. My friend whispered to me that that one belonged to the PACOM commander.

Meanwhile, the nearest one, whose bow resembled the head of a hammerhead shark, launched out several anchors to the tops of nearby skyscrapers, then it settled in the space between them, suspended by these outstretched appendages.

It was time to go back aboard. Our fun time in future Guam was all but ended. The sentiment was festive, if bittersweet, and I thought,
"*******, *******. What a life."

look away

This poem better not ******* trend.

Literary Reference:
In the Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caufield spends ghost time with his deceased brother Allie whenever he feels overcome by negative feelings.

Don't leave me. There's a moderate chance that I may come to miss you.

Are you sure this is a good idea?

Also it's like -15 outside and I'm from Florida.

Gaps and connections constantly rearranging as if in some semblance of neural activity

Not burning for you, just burning.

Not enough to satisfy you.

This is a re-write.

A.K.A. Blinder Pt. 2
A.K.A. I'm Sorry Helen Keller