When I type “What is the meaning of life?” into Google,
I always hit the “I’m feeling lucky button”,
But it hasn’t worked yet.

When you asked me if I loved you
and I said that I hated you,
I meant in the third-grade
throw-sand-in-your-juice
kind of way.
Because I’m about as fit as a third-grader
to be with you.
And about as emotionally mature.
So let’s go behind the portables and make-out,
until the recess bell rings
And we have to get back to molding
the leaders of tomorrow.

The only kind picture he ever had.
And he kept it in on the nightstand.
Not on the mantle,
Where the comings and goings of a house
Belonging to one of his stature,
Would see it. It wasn’t for the world.
Not in a drawer, locked away.
It wasn’t for God to look upon alone,
In the hidden places of the world,
Where only his eyes could penetrate.

He had never once thought of throwing it out,
As others who contemplate their mementos
Often do.
No.

In that picture was a smile on his face,
on the face of the stranger in it,
For a hundred years will make even an old friend
A new acquaintance.

He was a child in the picture,
He couldn’t even remember when it was taken.
But he was smiling, and it was dear to him.
It was the only kind picture he ever had.
He had not smiled since.

When he needed to harden his heart,
And gain new resolution for his life,
He would look at it, and remember.
He would remember he was human,
And in that moment of weakness,
The doubt of his cold crusade would be renewed
And he could get back to work.

You write cause you’re lonely.
You don’t write cause you’re out,
At a party,
Or in bed
With a beautiful girl.

You don’t write during a candlelight dinner,
Or while you’re gazing at the stars.
You write when you’re sitting around,
Either determined or bored,
Or apathetic in the mire.
But you write, and you don’t stop
Cause it’s in you
And it wants to be let out.