Six Word Story

Coffee thought.

Why aren't cookies called, Bakies? You don't cook them, you bake them.

She has phases like the moon,

each wax and wane equally predictable.

I live by a lunar calendar.

Screams of the city,

after autumn rains,

fills my heart,

if only for a moment.

Of number twos.

Some may not give a shit (or two).

Others may take a shit.

Me, I often have a shit,

when people sometimes lose their shit.

Short Poem

She set sail from the harbor on the last remaining ship, she had burnt all the rest.

I couldn't blame her. I understood why she did it,

as I stood on the shore with all my baggage in hand.

I use to like riding the metro around the city with with no predetermined destination.

I'll not waste good chapstick,

on bad kisses anymore.

I don't think our love was like any storybook,

We worked like cold, clinically drafted plans.

She told me exactly what she needed to build foundations, as I did for her.

And we both learned to be architects along the way.

We learned to read instructions written in two different languages, the hidden meaning of gestures.

Reenforcing weakness and learning failure points.

It may not be as exciting as any great book but I know what it will look like in the end.

.... because she comes with a troubleshooting section.

My fat ass: *looks at the nutrition label*

"If you adjust calories for inflation, I'm actually under eating."