Old Music.

The sky's in love with you.

It must be.

Why else would it break into the brightest grin each time you greet it in the dawn?
I see it wink at you discreetly in the dark, its eyes shining brilliantly with a secret.
Can you feel it as it whirls around you in the wind? It howls for you in the night,
It searches for you while you close your eyes and dream of better days.

Tonight the sky thunders in anguish. Torrents cut the seas in blind rage.
It must have been something you said. The rains follow you and hope you feel the pain.
You don't, though. With your boots and your coat, it is too easy to forget.
The storm pours on.

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It reads like a psalm D: Anyway, there's still a verse after that, but it was awful, so now it's crumpled up somewhere. I wrote this last week, after listening to Herb Alpert's This Guy's In Love With You. Hehe, I heard it wrong.

You Missed A Spot.

The world was wet today.

And the world sprung a leak in my umbrella, seeped into my robot shoes, and kept tap-tap-tapping on my shoulder.

(It was the world, but when I looked back, there was no one there.)

I wrote a poem and I put it in my pocket. I put it in everyone's pockets with my digital fingers. Lucky it didn't slip and fall into the puddle forming around my feet. You know how it is. How your words turn into soggy blotches that could mean anything. Unless the word was blotch, then that would be fine.

I write words to impress. I write words to impress but it's not working. It's always expressing something. Something I'd prefer to keep. But I can't stop writing. The world is too interesting.