If it involves you, pasta or sunsets count me in.
A "poem" every day.
I upset myself
So I’m watching Star Trek and
Eating some pasta
--A dock in the sea at which boats may anchor
That's the definition Google gave
But if you ask me,
Google doesn't know ****
Because no matter how many pages
Or links that I've clicked
Google can never tell me how many times
you've made me laugh
than I thought myself capable
No algorithm can pinpoint
how many hours we spent on that
front porch swing
covered by empty Barefoot bottles
letting our heels sink in awe
of the world we had in front of us
Trust me that no "I'm Feeling Lucky" button
could ever lead me up the steps of
that little apartment
where i learned that your
dollar store pasta,
simple as it may,
will always be my favorite
And may it
not by God or some invisible hand
be the reason i believe in fate
Always my North Star,
together you and I make
a really ****** compass.
But then again we've never held
trust to anything but our guts
to tell us we are
heading in the right directions.
And so many directions we have taken,
to think all the conversations
we've held about
the places we'd end up
were just the billboards
we didn't know we were passing
Okay--maybe Google's definition wasn't so far off then.
You my friend are more than just a season
You are the life, and the warmth, and the beauty
of our favorite June night
even in the dead of winter
The fog on the windows of your house
are reminders of every breath that has escaped you, every
breath you'll never be able to catch
every breath you have stolen
Enough to heat a home.
So i know that no matter how rough the waters
or smooth my ocean's floor,
I, my lonely ship,
know I can always have a place to anchor
Gonna carry out the feministic agenda
Gonna live, laugh and love lasagna
Gonna save the earth from the ocean
Gonna let the boys show some kinda emotion
Ravioli, yo, that pasta is tenda
Now what should I call ya, Genda benda?
look mum im a poet
supposed to be
sorry ive been shutting people out i dont know how to cope today was a bad day and i dont know how to feel
She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile.
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy.
All of it would never fit in the ***.
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce.
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian
A relationship is like
pamasan on pasta
It's not necessary but
it'll give you a better meal
A tomato entreat
this noteworthy beat
so meaty the leaves that the seeds
forget a triumph in heat.
A true measure in taste and
discover this variety that the sauce tastes great.