A piece in us remains, from wherever we have been. - Variation on a fortune cookie.

The purpose of my writing is to have people savor ideas through words, like a gunshot wound if it were a jelly donut oozing rasberry filling.

Finite Bye (Draft)

What is "infinite?"
It is everlasting.
What is "finite?"
It is "capable of being counted."*

What is "goodbye?"
It's a formal way to part.
What is 'bye?"
It's an quick informal way to part.

So therefore, what is a "finite bye?"
Is it an informal way to part that can be counted (once)?
Its basically a definite parting; once.
In reality, you don't need more than one time to say goodbye's;
Its all an unnecessary process that lingers (and you can thank your emotions).

Dear silent recipient,
who might not deserve a formal parting...

May your days be as bright as they were for Mother Theresa.
I wish you no dismay, no disarray, no disorder.
I wish nothing for you, but I don't wish you nothingness.
I wish space, I wish silence, I wish waking up from nightmares.
I wish vacuous gaps in between.

Tread along the grassy fields,
bask among the toasty sun
and the good days,
the lucky fortunes,
the feverish good times
and the the relaxing injections.

But don't tread along the quiet shadows
where my scent remains
and where my footsteps lay.
Don't bask among my golden rays,
the ones injecting in my face
the ones so far away from where I hope yours are.

Walk into that magic place, the one where you can continue to augur
your angelic prophecies.
Float among the divine queens no less than perfect
thanks to C₂H₅OH.

And continue to produce illusions with deceptive devices,
conjuring what your hands mold;
may your world be the one you want to optical illuse.
May your fantasy not meld with my tangibility.


*Definition on www.dictionary.com

The heart creates a thick coat of blindness only tearable by self-sufficiency.

"Regret as a Product of Friday's" (possible draft)

When Friday comes,
the sparks are grand,
inhibition gone
as a drop escaping
the open neck of a frosty bottle.
When Fridays come,
explosions are immense;
thirst insatiable;
smiles glued open;
and the night is so juicy that the bite is sloppy.

However,
when Sunday comes
the story changes;
the is ending warped;
the glue is now tacky
and the smile is cracked open with crusty residue.

When Monday comes
the stillness blooms;
the days now longer;
the nights now dryer.
When Monday comes
I pray for Tuesday
and then for Wednesday
 or at least I pray for a halt,
but then for speed.
When Monday comes
I make up my mind,
and then I change it on Thursday,
forgetting withdraws.

Friday returns,
and this poem infinitely loops.