A wedding coming up, that's nice
Put some pink champagne on ice

A little son for Pam and Ted-
Better wet the baby's head

Cyril died for goodness sake
Get some beers in for the wake

Paddy says he saw his ghost
Must be worth a little toast

Rabbie Burns night guess the plan
Old Lang Syne then a dram

Talking business I've a hunch
Could involve a liquid lunch

Dear John news comes in a letter
Have a brandy you'll feel better

Internet gone on the blink
Enough to drive a man to drink

Not that I take much you see
Just a little socially

I am king appointed by God and the sun is my trampoline  work of artistry, the sun is my private stock color, the moon is my faithful broken stallion in the sky, my own sundown I capture blue clouds with silver chains mixed with gold, I make steady the day with wind gusts of playing leaves  running and hiding, the day is my sweet, sassy song of joy to God , the world is mountain tall waiting to be climbed, the world is my many colored coat designed with rainbows, stars, sunshine, clouds, trees, grass, shy, trees, worn buttoned yet loose, the world is a painting on my wall of my  house

Find me in the piazza where Neptune's confined
As night makes phantoms of us two entwined
Hold me tightly, with all your power
When we come across that evil tower
Where the feet of men once danced upon air
Please - do not let us not linger there
Instead, take me to the statues ball
Where shadows waltz across the wall
We'll join them in this moonlit masque
And spin until dawn begins her task
As darkness burns in morning's fire
Take my hand so we may retire
I'll place my head upon your naked chest
And savor the silence in which we're blessed
But most of all, do not let me leave
For home is not a place to grieve
Keep me here, until our hearts cease to endeavor
In our final moment, we will live forever.

Money is a wonderful thing. I'll never deny that. Having the means to do the things you love is a great feeling. Not having the means is a pretty ****** one. However, having excessive, ridiculous, gross amounts of money, to the point where you don’t know what to do with it, is a problem. No one should have that kind of money. My dream is to live in an apartment with just a place to sleep, a place to go to the bathroom and a place to make food. Anything else, honestly, seems like a waste to me at this point. it takes away from what life truly is. it strips you of the feeling of being truly alive and prevents you from being at peace with yourself. Believe me, “success" is something everyone strives for, bleeds for and dreams of.

But success is a relative concept. In my opinion, realizing this and living your life knowing this is the greatest success a person can ask for.

The empty space that sits and waits
Spaces sit so bored and cold
We left and locked up the house today
Left one way I've never known, without you.
The empty spaces on the walls
Grow more useless every day
Calenders have lost their date
The numbers are growing old (like you did).
The empty beds are in the rooms
And there's a perfectly good one
But nobody has the nerve to sleep there
So the mattress cries, and weeps- it dies (kind of like him).
The empty closets once filled with doodles
With hearts and names and numbers
The numbers from my mothers childhood
That are probably disconnected (like yours).
The empty fridge that held our meals
Endless containers of coffee creamer
And seemingly reappearing bologna
Contains just a solemn old fruit cup (kind of like us).
The empty chair that was your space
I sat in about three times today
Where you sat and we did crossword puzzles
Quiet yet interesting puzzle books (just like you).
The empty house that sits and waits
Watches the garbage bags being taken away
Watching us discuss prices and family problems
Watching us secretly mourn in our own silent way
Of cleaning out your already empty house.

I wish it was easy
Love and stuff
Saying 'I love you' without fear
Its so strange to think about.
I love you is like a loaded phrase
Don't you dare say it too soon
Too loud
Too young
Too close.
Like a gun.
Aimed for your head.
Aimed for your heart, too.
A pistol with three chambers loaded
I
Love
You
Each a separate shot.
First in the throat, and you lose your voice while you wait
On baited breath for the rest of what they'll say.
Then the stomach, when the meaning of that word is suddenly
Printed in bold-face type on the backs of your eyelids.
And finally, your heart.
When you hear the last word, and you get a sweet, bitter ache in your heart
Because they love
You.
You, with all your flaws and cracks and fears bared to them
You, with every anxiety and heartbreak you put them through daily
You, who couldn't
Shouldn't, would never
Deserve to be loved.
But they say it, and the truth just hits you.
So hard, it hurts.
It feels good.
Why you?
Why them?
...Why not?