a cherished few returnFriend, I’m sorry, what even happened? Tolerable enough that "hey" would do.
like a boomerangI cannot stay, only come back. Tell me what you need. A wax figure constant to the flame. How do you see fit?
picking cherries out of lifeHusks on the ground, a shell of a man. The kernels rotten, ugly and obscene.
Tag: new poetry
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better, then
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Aequitus Non Forma
Universal responsibility without universal consequence. A convenient argument for those who never slept without food in their stomach, lived without love in their past, and never suffered doubt for their chances or passion to prevail.
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Filthy
Leave your scrap. I am the excrement of the world. I crawl to the edge of the trash pile, salt it with earth and devour. Leave your disgust. I am the crazy you loathe and the strange you fear. I sing platitudes like a skipped record, scratching the cliff holds for dear life. Lay me in the dirt. I suffocate there thousands of years watching the strata pass. Cast me your stones and throw me in the pit. Belabor your glorious effort at my humble expense. If all else fails, burn the witch.
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Close Your Eyes, Passerby
Close your eyes: A tortuous path ‘round leaves, a smoky inhale, an acrid, honey exhale smiling sweet in the pane. It’s nice, they say, when your eyes open and that place you stay...
The ocean at the end of the lane, out there. Quietly waiting with the sun, we stare. Digging my own grave inside a bottle of Jack. Living life worth leaving and it ain’t half bad. Kill me with a smile; never take it back. Don’t know what’s waiting, passing through trees out there. A hazy, white wolf with a welcome-home glare. A knock at my soul hello to the ones who stay. Chilling with my friends fuck the rest away.
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A Most Patient Game
A quizzical creature bundled down. Quilted together, cut, from the same cloth - different scissors. Warm until tattered, somehow catching wind. A tired, musty dry line sagging and swaying. Moreover, the unreachable often still reach you. Crooked, but as usual, the only one in town.
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Benched
The bench spoke to me. I waited so long: the daily walks, the nervous glances, - hoping. I made excuses, now thinking about it, to walk by. Deluding myself to believe. No, I do like walking. I do like that bench. Around and around that gnarly, blood-footed path. And then sat, “please leave“ it requested. An underwhelming introduction, but chills and flutters still. I walk on.
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Parasite Obsolete
A novelty, she turns each page with as much emotion as she reads. Petals pressed, feathers caught, stories from the back of the book; pages no one else sees. A leak in performance held by drying wrinkles. I stared at each word so long, clinging for dear life to everything she whispered, the slow march of typeface across skin. Dangling by fear and craving off the sidewalk’s end.
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Forge
Go, go on
Go on comfort
Go on pain
Go on grip of something beautiful
Go, go on
Go on common
Go on fate
Go on hard fought and earned
Go, go on
Go on, love
Live life like a dying breed
Change - my first and last dying need
So go
Go, go on -
Echo Chamber
Low roads pierce heavy clouds,
down the barrel - face -
selling thoughts a penny.
Parlor tricks without gloat
heads nod - embrace -
betting men a plenty.
Facing facts wrinkles skin;
firmly falls grace,
failing sharper than any.
Meaning life falls in love,
pays slim straights -
the house tax a century.
Scribbles 'n Bits 