I wanted to write something lovely today,
about a beautiful phrase in an autumn-ish way.

I knew what it meant. I knew what I should.
Until I got to the word 'season'...
and completely misunderstood.

You meant falling petals and time passing away,
the changing of things as they slowly decay.

I pictured a spice rack. What can I say?

I thought about mixing spices and how they all zing,
and suddenly season meant a whole different thing.

I pictured a shaker of flowery flakes,
sitting on the table while I’m out on a date.

A shaker of lavender, thyme, and whatever it takes,
with rose petals ground into cinnamon flakes.

Just a twinge of paprika, because apparently we must,
a sprinkle of solace, and cinnamon dust.

A dash of delight, measured just right,
and a pinch of perhaps this night might go all right.

The girl I’m having dinner with smiles over at me.
I straighten my collar. It's as straight as can be.

“Would you pass the season, my dear?”

She slides it my way, her eyes bright and clear.

So far, so good.

I think I’m charming.
I think I’m slick.

I give it a shake...

and things go bad real quick.

A small petal takes flight and lands on my steak.
I was not expecting a petal.

A terrible mistake.

I look at the petal.
She looks at me.

Another goes sailing...

plop

straight into her tea.

I give it another shake.
Just one.

Actually, maybe it was three.

And half of the seasoning
lands on her knee.

She slowly looks down.
Then slowly at me.

Then even more slowly,

“Did you just...

season me?”

“Geez. Maybe.”

She smiles.

“You’re really good
at impressing me.”

She reaches for the jar.

I start backing away.

Something in her smile says
I probably shouldn’t stay.

She reads from the label:

“Rose petals...
lavender...
thyme...

PFFT! THIS IS POTPOURRI!”

She gets a good handful
and flings it my way.

Right in my eye.

I grab some and say,

“Okay.

You wanna play?”

She gasps.
I stare.

We both start to grin.

And that’s when
the war did begin.

Rose petals fly!
Lavender launches!

Thyme fills the sky!
Some cinnamon punches!

I season the table.
She seasons the chairs.

I season our drinks.
She seasons our hair.

I season the napkins.
She seasons the floor.

We season the waiter
until he begs us
to please stop seasoning him anymore.

Petals drift left.
Petals drift right.

We’ve turned a nice dinner
into flower-fight night.

She’s laughing hard.
I’m laughing too.

There’s thyme on my head
and lavender in her shoe.

There’s rose in her dress.
There’s spice in my drink.

There’s seasoning everywhere
but the kitchen sink.

Finally she reaches
and catches my wrist.

“Truce?”

But something’s amiss.

There’s a sparkle still dancing around in her eyes.

I know that look.

This woman tells spice lies.

I narrow my eyes.

“I suppose I insist.”

She laughs hard.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I needed the rhyme.”

She nods very sweetly...

and throws

one

final

thyme.

“HEY!”

“What?”

“You said truce!”

She shrugs.

“Again...

you got seasoned.”

I laugh.

She laughs.

And somewhere in there,
with thyme on my shirt
and petals in her hair,

I realize this nonsense
is something I’ll keep,

long after the lavender
gets swept in a heap.

Because memories part like petals
of a passing season...

but some stick around for no sensible reason.

In pockets.
In laughter.
In clothes.
In your hair.

Little pieces of moments
that somehow stay there.

And maybe the best ones
aren’t grand or profound.

Maybe they happen
with petals all around.

Maybe solace is simpler
than poems make it seem.

It doesn’t need thunder.
It doesn’t need dreams.

Sometimes it’s dinner.
Sometimes it’s thyme.

Sometimes it’s someone
who’ll ruin your rhyme.

I invited her to dinner.

She came. She threw spices at me. That was enough.

And somewhere between the petals and stuff,

she laughed,
I laughed,
and for just a little while,
in this whole big world
there is nothing better than to smile.

You would think
having two of the most famous poets
in the world as my wingmen
would be a surefire way
to meet someone nice.

You would be dead wrong.

My best friends are Robert Frost
and Edgar Allan Poe.

Between them,
they’ve written some of the most beautiful words
in the English language.

Surely they can help me
talk to this one girl I like.

We’re at a coffee shop.

I see her there.

“Gentlemen. I really like her.
She’s coming this way.
Help me. What do I say?”

Frost gets a twinkle in his eye and straightens his coat.

Poe looks like he hasn’t slept since 1847.

“Give me an opening line.”

Frost whispers,

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...”

“Okay, Bob. We need to connect that
into a complete thought.

She’s twelve feet away.”

“Take the one less traveled.”

“I’m still not sure
how that applies, Bob.”

Poe grabs my arm frantically.

“Tell her you loved her with a love
that was more than love.”

“Edgar...

that’s actually pretty good.

Maybe just a little strong
for someone who doesn’t know
my name yet?”

He stares mournfully
into the distance.

“Guys. Lock in.

Something normal.

Compliment her.”

Frost thinks.

“The woods are lovely,
dark and deep.”

“Bob.

Are you even aware
of what we’re doing here
or do you just want to talk about the woods?”

Poe suddenly perks up.

“I have it!”

Finally.

“Once upon a midnight dreary...”

“IT’S NINE IN THE MORNING, EDGAR.

WE’RE AT A COFFEE SHOP.”

I abandon my literary council.

I walk over.

“Hi.”

She looks up.

Cute smile.

I make a joke.

She laughs.

See?

Normal human interaction.

We start talking.

She’s funny.

She thinks I’m funny.

There’s a little spark.

This is going well.

Then Frost appears beside me.

I frantically motion him away.

Nobody invited Frost.

He looks at her.

Looks at me.

Smiles sadly.

“Nothing gold can stay.”

GET AWAY FROM HER, BOB.

She laughs.

Okay.

Maybe we survived.

Maybe Bob isn’t so bad.

Then Poe slides
into the empty chair.

He turns to her.

“He’s nervous!
Very, very dreadfully nervous...”

“Edgar.

You’re making this weird.”

Behind us,
the barista shuts the refrigerator.

THUMP.

Poe freezes.

I smile at her.

“He’s sensitive to noise sometimes.”

THUMP. THUMP.

Poe’s eyes widen.

“Do you hear it?”

“It’s the fridge, Edgar.”

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

“It grows louder!”

“EDGAR, CALM DOWN.”

Now she’s really laughing.

Holy shit.

Maybe these idiots
are helping.

I relax.

She relaxes.

We’re talking.

Frost is quietly
drawing roads on a napkin.

Poe is checking
under the floorboards.

Everything is somehow...

working.

Then the door opens.

Frost goes pale.

Poe whispers,

“Dear God.”

A man walks in
wearing tights,
pointy shoes,
and a ridiculous collar,

with the confidence
of someone who’s been dead
four hundred years
and still gets top billing.

My friends look like
they’ve just seen
their archrival.

“Who the hell is that?”

Frost grabs my arm. He looks in disgust.

“William....”

I stare cofused

"Shakespeare."

“No.

Absolutely not.

Bill, keep walking.”

Too late.

He sees her.

Walks straight over.

Looks into her eyes.

Takes her hand.

“Shall I compare thee
to a summer’s day?”

She turns bright red.

Shakespeare looks at me.

Smirks.

WHAT AN A-HOLE.

I turn to Frost.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU
THINK TO SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT?”

He shrugs.

“The woods are lovely.”

I just stare at him

Poe jumps in.

“I could tell her
about Annabel Lee.”

“NO MORE DEAD WOMEN, EDGAR.”

Meanwhile,

Shakespeare is absolutely cooking.

Sonnets off the top of his head.
Beautiful metaphors.
Something about stars.
She is enchanted.

“Bill,” I interrupt,

“you know she’s not actually
a summer’s day, right?”

He ignores me.

She laughs.
He bows.
She fucking claps.

Frost looks defeated.

Poe looks like
he wants to murder Shakespeare,

but Poe always looks at everyone like that.

Five minutes later, they’re still talking.

Shakespeare is telling her
some story involving
two sets of twins.

I stare at my wingmen.

“You two are world-famous poets.”

Frost sighs.

“Two roads diverged...”

“Don’t.”

Poe puts a hand
on my shoulder.

“Alas, Nevermore.”

“Thanks Edgar.”

Across the room,

Shakespeare makes her laugh
again.

Frost stares into his coffee.
Poe stares into the abyss.
I stare at Shakespeare.

And that’s when
I learned the first rule
of meeting girls
with famous poets:

Never compete with Shakespeare.

Apparently
all the world’s a stage...

and that guy has all the good lines.

I like getting to know you slowly,
a piece here, a piece there,
a funny story you tell me,
the cute curl in your hair.

The songs that you love,
the snacks that you like,
the things that make you laugh
till you’re holding your side.

You’ll casually mention
some wonderfully strange fact,
and I quietly make a mental note,
“Yep. I’m keeping that.”

A secret at midnight,
a confession at two,
another small piece
of the puzzle called you.

And just when I’m certain
I’ve figured you out,
you turn the whole puzzle
and spin it about.

A new little corner,
a new shade of blue,
another odd piece
a perfect fit: you.

So give me your stories,
your weirdness, your glee,
I’ll happily spend all my time
discovering thee.

But fair warning, sweetheart,
its not the same when you get around to me,
my puzzle’s a little less
factory-fresh, you see.

A few pieces are missing,
I unfortunately gave them away
To people I thought loved me
But they did not stay

I don't have a full set
some got lost on the way,
somebody trampled the box
on some particularly shitty day.

My corners got crumpled,
my edges are bent,
and God only knows
where that one middle piece went.

I’ve tried forcing pieces
where they clearly don’t fit,
then stared at the mess
and thought, **“**Well... fuck this shit.”

But I’m learning a puzzle
needn’t be shiny or new,
to still make a picture
worth giving to you.

So take your sweet time,
there’s no need to flee.

You can give me your pieces slowly.
But take all these pieces of me.

****A friend wrote this for me and I wanted to post it****

You come a long way
But you still have some trouble
It seems that your large house by the bay
Has now crumbled to rubble

I won’t say “Don’t give up”
I know you know better than that
You don’t have to be tough
Don’t listen to Dad

The trauma behind you is eating you whole
By beating you into a man, your childhood they stole

But here comes a new breath
And he’s just a boy
You have a chance to start fresh
A new friend to enjoy

Think of what haunts you
But also think of your blessings
Old friends may be gone out of the blue
But they’ve taught you many lessons

I give you my light
because I know what darkness
can do to a heart.

Side walk me away from the sidewalk

Lead me away from gray concrete and ambient noise.

Let the pavement end where my wild begins.

The city takes my days and takes what it wants. I never learn to say no.

Tonight give me trees,
a display of stars in the night sky,
and dirt beneath my bare feet.

Let this quiet night remind me that I was never meant to live inside predefined lines.

Summer left its shoes
beside the door,
said, “Just one minute,”
then came back no more.

The sun packed up
its golden things,
while autumn paced
waiting in the wings.

But somehow you
forgot to leave,
because I feel a little warmth
still on my sleeve.

A laugh, a look,
your lovely name,
your rays reached something
deep in the heart of me.

I'll never be the same.

So maybe I'm the moon,
just content to cross the night,
because all I really want
is for everyone
to see your marvelous light.

So let summer wander forever.
Let the seasons rearrange or end.

Your sunshine does more than warm me... your sunshine
leaves me changed from within

if you know you know :-)

Today is the day.

My first grandchild.

And somewhere between
the excitement and the waiting,
I keep thinking about
where all of this began.

I came from dysfunction,
from things children
should never have to carry,
from people who were hurting
long before they ever hurt me.

And I wish I could say
it all stopped with me.

It didn't.

I started my own family
still carrying things
I didn't understand.

My pain became choices.
My wounds became mistakes.

And my son felt some of the weight
that never should have been his
to carry.

That's a truth
I will always own.

But it isn't
where the story ends.

I fought my way back.

I changed.
I healed.
I learned how to love
without making love hurt.

And I watched my son
become a man.
I helped him erase the toxic ideas I had placed on him.
I cried in front of him.
I said I was sorry.
I hugged him and kissed his forehead.
Things I never got and never will.

Now today,
I get to watch that man
become a father.

And somehow,
that feels bigger
than I know how to explain.

Because this little one,

you will never know
the world your grandfather knew.

You won't inherit
the darkness I inherited.

You will know arms
that reach for you gently.

A home where you are safe.

Parents who wanted you,
prepared for you,
prayed and hoped for you.

You will know laughter.

You will know patience.

You will know
that making a mistake
doesn't make you a mistake.

And someday
you may hear stories
about where we came from.

About broken people,
bad choices,
second chances,
and a grandfather
who took a long damn time
to figure things out.

But those will only be stories
to you.

They will not be
your inheritance.

Your inheritance
will be love.

Today,
when I finally hold you,
I'll be holding more
than my first grandson.

I'll be holding proof
that families can change.

That wounds don't have
to become heirlooms.

That a name can be handed down
without handing down
all the pain attached to it.

I couldn't change
where our story began.

I couldn't protect my son
from every broken part of me.

But he and I
made it far enough
to give you
a different beginning.

And that may be
one of the greatest gifts
my life has ever given me.

Today is the day.

My son becomes a father.

I become Grandpa.

And you, little one,

begin a new chapter
of an old family.

Same blood.

Same name.

Different legacy.

I was listening to 'Can't help falling in love with you' and the lyric 'Take my hand, take my whole life too' speaks to me so much. I was wondering if you have a lyric that hits you every time you hear it?

The storm swirled around me before I was even born.

I was surrounded by the ones who hurt me,
who themselves had weathered storms.

It's a birthright to our name,
the day you're first inflicted with the pain.

And those who struck them
carried lightning of their own,
each generation violently passing current
through blood and bone.

Through word and seed,
one generation
made the next one bleed.

Then it reached me.

That day in May.

My first day.

And I grew into it.

Too young to understand
why the sky had turned so black,
too young to know
some things you lose
you never get back.

My innocence was stolen
far too soon,
gone like smoke
beneath a wounded moon.

Damage added
to what I'd already been given.

I never even had the chance
to use my own eyes
to see the moon.

Before I knew its light,
someone taught me darkness
and called it right.

Before I knew anything of myself,
someone selfishly
left their scars upon me.

And even still,
some part of me
will never be the same.

That's the truth.

There are things
you can survive
but can never undo.

And for a while,
I carried the voltage
of their electricity too.

As a young man,
it ran through my veins.

It came out in my words.

My choices,
the thunder.

My anger,
the pouring rain.

And then...

I shocked the next generation too.

My own people,
caught in the same ritual as me.

The ones I swore
I'd never hurt,

lying crackling
in the dirt.

I became part
of the storm I hated.

I grew up with so much rage,
so angry,
so frustrated.

And that's the part
that hurts the worst:

how easily we become
what happened to us first.

But somewhere along the way,
I finally understood:

pain doesn't stop shocking
just because
you survived it.

You either pass it on
until it kills you...

you die in vain,

or find a way
to pull the current
from your veins.

So I did just that.

Not all at once.

Bolt by bolt.

Scar by scar.

Year by year.

Mark by mark.

Until the electricity
that had traveled
through generations

finally found
its grounding

right in me.

In me.

The scars remain.

The bolts still changed me.

Some part of me
will always look at the moon
through eyes
that were changed too soon.

I can't give that child
his innocence back.

I can't unlearn the darkness.

Can't turn back time
and somehow change the past.

I can't become
who I might have been
if the storm
had never found me.

I can't take back the words
or undo the grip
the lightning had around me.

But I can make damn sure
it doesn't leave me

looking for someone else
to strike.

The ones who hurt me
were hurt before.

And those who hurt them
were hurt before.

And those before them...

more.

I understand that now.

But understanding
isn't surrender.

Someone had to stop
conducting the pain.

Someone had to look
into that ancient storm
and say:

No more.

My children may inherit
my eyes,
my laugh,
my name.

And yes,

in some ways
I passed along
my fear,
my hesitation,
my shame.

I wasn't perfect.

I didn't stop it
before some of the lightning
got through.

But I got right
in time.

So they will never know
the whole storm
the way I knew.

Not the thunder
that never ceases.

Not the fear
that only increases.

Not the electricity
that burns straight through,
poisoning the veins
until it becomes part of you.

The lightning reached me.

It burned me.

God,

it burned me.

For a while,
I became lightning too.

And some part of me
will never be the same.

But I pulled
the current
from my veins.

And the storm
that traveled through
our blood for generations,

from parent to child,
from wound to wound,
from name to name...

stops here.

Got a date tonight.
Nothing too crazy.
Just dinner.
Gonna keep it real simple.

Recipe: Mom's Spaghetti.

Hell Yeah, I can make spaghetti.
I'm a grown-ass man.

Boil water.
Cook noodles.
Heat sauce.
That's basically the plan.

She's coming at seven.
It's only six-ten.
Plenty of time.
This is gonna be easy. Not gonna be cheesy.

Confidence. Zen.
Water on.
Sauce in the pan.

Little garlic.
Little seasoning.
Look at this shit.
I'm basically Italian.

Taste the sauce.
Needs something.

More garlic, Taste again, More garlic.

Okay.
That's probably too much garlic.

Whatever.

She's not kissing me for my cooking.

Wait.

That's exactly what I'm cooking for.

Fuck.

Start over?

No.

Commit.

Noodles in.
Sauce bubbling.
Garlic bread in Oven.
Four hundred.

Easy.

Maybe light a candle.
Set the mood.

One candle. Classy.

Maybe two. Romantic.

Three?

Now we're getting somewhere.

Music.
Need music.
Something sexy.

Not too sexy.

Don't want her walking in
thinking I've planned the whole evening which is exactly what I did.

But she doesn't need to know that.

6:32.

Looking good.

Pour some wine.
Take a sip.

With my mind on my spaghetti
and my spaghetti on my mind.

Okay.

Another sip.

For nerves.

Stir the sauce.
Sip.
Stir.
Sip.

I'm fucking crushing this.

Wait.

What's that smell?

Garlic bread.

SHIT.

Set the timer I keep always forgetting.
I open oven but only smoke comes out
but Im choking now, I should have used the toast setting

Smoke.

Not fire.
Just smoke.

We're okay.

Pull the bread out.

Black.

Completely black.

That's fine.

Scrape it.

People scrape toast.

Knife.

Scrape scrape scrape.

Now the smoke detector starts screaming.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Oh, shut the fuck up.

Wave towel.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Open window.
Wave harder.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Fuck you.

Grab chair.
Climb up.
Try to pull the battery.

Can't get it.

BEEP.

I SAID I KNOW.

Chair wobbles.
Grab wall.
Knock picture down.

Picture hits candle.
Candle hits tablecloth.

Tablecloth catches fire.

...

Okay.

That's fire.

That's definitely fire.

And yes...

it's getting hot in here.

Thanks, Nelly.

Grab wine.
Throw wine on fire.

Apparently alcohol was not the direction
we wanted to go here.

WHOOP THERE IT IS

FUCK.

Grab towel.

Towel catches fire.

Now I'm holding fire.

WHY AM I HOLDING FIRE?

Throw towel in sink.
Turn water on.

Sink is full of spaghetti.

WHY IS THERE SPAGHETTI IN THE SINK?

No time.

Grab extinguisher.
Pull pin.

Nothing.

Pull harder.

Nothing.

Read instructions.

WHY ARE THERE INSTRUCTIONS?

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

I KNOW, MOTHERFUCKER.

Finally get it.

PSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH.

White powder everywhere.

Table. Floor. Spaghetti. Sauce.

Me.

Kitchen looks like a hurricane sneezed.

Silence.

I stand there.

Extinguisher in one hand.
Wine in the other.

6:58.

...

Doorbell.

Of course.

I look at the kitchen.

Burnt bread.
Ruined spaghetti.
Broken picture.
Wet flaming towel.

Fire extinguisher dust
covering everything I own.

Smoke hanging three feet below the ceiling.

Doorbell again.

DING DONG.

COMING!

Quick.

Cologne.

Spray.

Too much.

Now it smells like smoke, garlic,
and bad decisions.

Perfect.

Walk to door.

Stop.

Check myself in mirror.

White powder in my hair.
Sauce on my shirt.

One eyebrow looks...

different.

Did I burn my fucking eyebrow?

DING DONG.

OPEN THE DOOR.

She's standing there looking so fine.

Beautiful.
Dressed up.
Holding a bottle of fancy wine.

She smiles.

"Something smells good."

Behind me, the smoke detector:

BEEP.

I look back at the destroyed kitchen.

Then at her.

Then at the fire truck pulling up outside.

Red lights flashing through the smoke.

She looks at me.

I look at her.

"Is your house on fire?"

"That's a strong word."

Front door flies open.

Firefighter steps through the smoke,
smooth as fuck,
takes one look around and says...

"HOOOOOLD UP. HEEEYY....... "

Everybody freezes.

He looks at the table.
Looks at the spaghetti.
Looks at the burning trash can.

Looks at me.

Looks at my date.

Then back at me.

"Man... what the hell were you cooking?"

"Spaghetti."

He nods slowly.

"Not anymore."

PSSSSSSHHHHHH.

Extinguisher hits the kitchen.
Hits the table.
Hits the walls.
Hits dinner.

Hits me.

My date is standing outside
laughing her ass off.

Firefighter walks past me,
shakes his head,
then stops at the door.

Turns around.

Looks me dead in the eyes.

"You can't be trusted around an open flame no more"

I look at my date.

Half an eyebrow gone.
Covered in spaghetti sauce
and extinguisher dust.

House smoking behind me.
Three firefighters in my kitchen.

I straighten my shirt.

Look her up and down.

Smile.

"So...

you still wanna come in for dessert?"

Behind me the firefighter yells:

"HOLD UP!"

I turn around.

"What NOW?"

He points at the kitchen.

"The stove is still on."

I learned to be funny
when I couldn't be okay,
turn pain into punchlines
and laugh it all away.

If I can get you laughing,
I can get you to like me.
That's the trick.
That's the act.
That's the version you can see.

I'll make fun of myself first
before you get the chance,
turn every insecurity
into part of the performance.

I was abused.
I was beaten.
I was laughed at too.
I was cheated of my innocence,
and every word is true.

But by the way I joke around,
you wouldn't have a clue.
I learned that making people laugh
could hide what I'd been through.

I did drugs for eight years
until I was nearly gone.
I took the pain that lived in me
and passed the hurting on.

To people that I cared about,
to people who loved me well.
I took the hell that I survived
and gave them pieces of that hell.

That's the part that's hard to joke about.
The part I can't defend.
Sometimes the wounded become the wound
to family and to friends.

Then I was sober fourteen years,
I climbed out of the mess.
I took the broken man I was
and built him into something less
broken,
something blessed.

But I relapsed again.

And it was quite recent.

Fourteen years behind me,
and somehow I still fell.
Turns out you can escape the fire
and still remember hell.

There's self-hatred in the basement,
there's regret behind the door,
there are things I wish forgetting
could erase forevermore.

So I learned to read the room,
learned exactly what to say.
If everybody's laughing,
maybe they'll all want me to stay.

Because if I make you laugh,
maybe you'll like having me around.
And for a little while,
the noise inside
gets drowned out by the sound.

So I'll tell another story.
I'll make myself the fool.
I'll turn another scar into
some clever little jewel.

And you'll laugh.

God, I hope you laugh.

Because laughter means you like me,
and maybe that's enough
to quiet down the part of me
that says I'm hard to love.

So when I act too cool for school,
please know that's not quite me.
I'm lonely, lost, and underneath,
desperate for company.

No amount of validation
will ever make me sure.
You could tell me that I'm wanted
and I'd still ask, "Are you sure?"

So talk to me.
Please talk to me.
And if you can, please stay.
Because silence gives my darkest thoughts
too much room to play.

I know that's far too much to ask.
I know you can't repair
all the empty rooms inside of me
just by choosing to be there.

But beneath the jokes and confidence,
beneath the games I play,
there's still a frightened part of me
convinced you'll go away.

And somewhere along the way,
I accepted something too:

I don't think I have a person.
Maybe I was never meant to.

So I've made peace with being alone,
or at least that's what I say.
Better to keep my heart to myself
than hurt someone else someday.

I've watched what my broken pieces
can do to those who stay.
So maybe loving people means
keeping myself away.

No promises I might shatter.
No heart placed in my hands.
No one paying for the damage
they could never understand.

I'll flirt with you.
I'll make you laugh.
I'll make you feel like you're the one.

I'll give you smiles,
I'll steal your blush,
and make damn sure we're having fun.

I'll make you feel wanted.
I'll make the moment shine.

But when the laughter settles...

I won't ask you to be mine.

Because loneliness can hurt me,
and I've learned to carry pain.

But I couldn't bear to love someone
and become their hurt again.

Still...

I'll do anything to make you laugh.
I'll be whoever you need.
The fool, the flirt, the funny man,
whatever makes you pleased.

I'll change the act,
I'll change the lines,
I'll play whatever part.
Just give me one more reason
to believe I've won your heart.

Because if you're laughing,
you're still here.
And if you're here,
I'm not alone.

So I'll keep performing,
keep pretending
this stage somehow feels like home.

I'll be whoever you want me to be,
just please don't turn to leave.

Funny...

I spent my whole life
trying to make everyone laugh
so they'd love me.

And after all these years,
I finally see...

the joke's on me.

I'm not getting older.

Baby, I'm classic.

You can call me
Mr. Bombastic. ;-)

Like vinyl on a turntable,
a little crackle in my sound.
You can't replace a motherfucking classic
just because something new came around.

I'm mixtapes over playlists,
handwritten notes that rhyme.
I still believe what's worth it
is worth taking a little time.

Chuck Taylors on my feet,
I got a Polaroid state of mind.
Maybe I'm not instant,
but hon, the good stuff takes some time.

Arcade games with quarters,
vinyl spinning after dark,
headlights turned down at the drive-in...

old school just has that spark. ;-)

And yes, that's how I text.
My emojis lean sideways.
;-)

Semicolon. Parenthesis.

Still flirting just fine these days.

They don't make 'em like me anymore,
so retro at my core.
Old-school charm and something more,
the kind worth coming back for.

And baby, I know what you're thinking:

"He's just a little too old."

But I'm seasoned and experienced,
and still not scared to be bold.

I've learned when to listen,
when to lead, when to hold.

Some things just get better
with a few more stories told.

I'm not streaming, baby,
I'm the record that you keep,
the one you play at midnight
when you should be fast asleep.

I'm not your newest download.
I'm that song stuck in your head,
the one you catch yourself humming
long after you've left your bed.

Some things don't get outdated.
Some things just become art.

And time has taught me something
you won't find on any chart:

when you're hurting,
I move closer.
When you're quiet,
I won't depart.

These young fellas might be nice...

but can they take care of your heart?

I'll look you in the eyes
and listen when you speak.
I'll run toward you when it matters,
not away when things get deep.

I've lived enough to stumble.
I've lived enough to fail.
I've lived enough to understand
how fragile hearts can feel.

I've made mistakes.
I've learned from them.
I've got some stories I could tell.

But that's just experience talking...

I've learned how to love you well.

So I'll be your vinyl,
your mixtape made for two,
your Polaroids and Chuck Taylors...

old-school looks good with you.

Sure new is fun.
New is shiny.
New will always have that allure.

But some things can't be manufactured.

Some things have to mature.

Call me character.
Call me vintage.
Call me old school.
Call me romantic.
Call me Mr Retro.

Just don't call me old.

Cause baby...

I'm just classic. ;-)

I'm taking Muse applications,
I need some inspiration.
My last muse disappeared,
so I understand your hesitation.

The job is fairly easy and simple,
just give my mind somewhere to roam,
I'll write you some sweet little poems
that make your heart feel at just at home.

I'll write you lines that make you melt
like ice cubes in the blazing sun,
some sweet enough to make you blush,
and others just because they're fun.

Compensation's mostly compliments,
with flirting on the side,
and poems about how pretty you are
that you will not be able to deny.

There's really no formal dress code,
wear whatever you adore.
Come exactly as you like,
but my advice is sometimes less is more.

Benefits aren't listed,
but you'll soon discover those.
Exactly what they include?
Well... I'm not able to fully disclose.

No resume required,
just a little fun chemistry,
but first, baby what's your sign?
It has to be compatible with mine!

You'll need a cute little laugh,
and that bold look in your eyes,
the one that says you kinda like me
no matter how hard you try to disguise.

There may be random messages,
a poem at half past three,
and shameless little compliments
delivered quite frequently.

So step right up, don't even be shy,
confidence is key.
Be cute, be sweet, be interesting,
be anything you please.

Bring a smile that gets me write,
a little wit , chemistry and alignment.
Come closer, I don't bite
but there's still one more major requirement:

Be completely, hopelessly,
ridiculously, unreasonably, unrealistically
obsessed with me.

So, you want the job?
Come over and say hi.
And if you're cute, don't overthink this...

Please don't hesitate to apply.

Disclaimer: this will only be funny to you if you are a nerd.

You walked in,
I checked the board.
Whose this Legendary creature?
She can't be ignored.

She's a perfect 10/10 with Flying,
way out of my league.
One look across the battlefield,
I'm willingly conceed.

My defenses were solid,
my strategy intact,
until you sat down at the table smiled at me and said

"Yeah, I'll tap that."  ;-)

Now you got me coming at you
like Aggro on turn two,
no patience for Control,
Because cutie, I'm going straight for you.

You've got Menace, baby,
and nowhere to hide.
One smile has Haste,
but I'm swinging wide.

You've got those Deathtouch eyes,
a that Lifelink grin,
every time you look my way,
you gain life, I give in.

You must be a Planeswalker,
'cause one look across the room,
and suddenly I'm traveling
to a whole new plane with you.

And girl, you're my Treasure token,
shiny, rare, and neat and sweet.
I'd never sacrifice you...
even for the mana I need.

I'd Scry 2
just to see you again.
I'd Mulligan the whole damn world
just to keep you in my hand.

Forget Counterspell,
put my heart right on the stack.
I've got no response...
and I'm not taking my card back.

So untap,
upkeep,
draw...
swing in....

and come sit by me.

Because you're definitely my type of Magic Girl...

and I don't mean MTG. ;-)