Poems...

The poem isn't mine, but here it is: Its size can be deceiving, Especially when it's just lying there, asleep: Though small, it's quite appealing, With its glorious appearance to keep. But as soon as you touch it with your fingers, It quickly wakes up and starts to strive, And in an instant, you'll feel How powerful and grand it can thrive. It's a slave to boundless fantasies, With it, you'll lose yourself in ecstasy, Just seek inspiration, And it will grant you pleasure, certainly. When it's near, within reach, You don't need anyone else, I beseech. And it habitually awaits your touch, With it, it's very hard to do without much. It gives you a subtle sign, That in a moment, it's ready to shine. Touching it lovingly with your fingers, You can have endless fun, it lingers. And to the movement of your hands, It reacts so fervently, it expands. It's like a living, cherished friend, And without it, you feel quite despondent. But sometimes, there are days, When it freezes: so suddenly, in a haze, Alas! There are no single recipes, You'll have to treat it in stages, with ease. Three fingers here don't help, And your tongue can't cope, it's a jolt, Others get angry and scold, (I've heard it so many times: about their mother, bold). But it's helplessly trusting, It hopes so much for you, it's adjusting! And you can't be angry with it anymore, And it's happened so many times before... It will open a new world to you, Of earthly and unearthly desires, it's true. It's like a god, it's your idol, A source of happiness and woe, it's vital. I could dedicate many more good lines to it, But let's not follow the example Of others... Let's know moderation, admit. I love you, my faithful friend, My old, good laptop, until the end!