The Poet


I want to feel the weight of love. The sanguine angsts of longing making my lips sour.
How could I let myself fall fragile to limbs of chance? The loss of trust has shaken my tree bare. How could I?
I have cried behind closed lips for so long that the windows of my eyes have fogged. The outside streams of hope have escaped my desperate thoughts.
The shades were drawn for the last time.
But why? How can I resolve to stay sauntering in dark rooms? Without even the smallest daydream? No more swooning nights. No more woeful pangs.
All that is left is maudlin. Tears have ossified in the loss of loves sight.
Take me where the poets die.
Remember me as weeping melodies.
Remember me how I have forgotten myself.
Remember me.


Spitting vile, burning the bridges you used to cross for me
Fetal, on my knees
Carving wishes into trees
You’re better than I could believe
Soaked in blood, my oozing sieve
Lost in eyes that aren’t mine
Devour the heaviness- make me benign
You’ve got me tracing thoughts on hopeful clouds
As muffled screams still echo loud
I am lost, but homeward bound
Your smile shines when I’m not around
I’m biting holes in my lips- getting scared
Not here? Then you’re gone, I’m prepared


I smell it just the same as I did,
the last time I used a pen like this.
But I don’t feel like I used to now.
I am standing where I always have,
but so much further than before.
This, this.
Pink pen, wet lense.
Depends, on dead ends and by bend.
On what? On when?
Sick of asking-I do it cause I’m lacking.
I’m embossed with loss.
Criss-crossed and pissed off.
There’s someone super important that I am looking for
And I think she’s on the floor,
Of a flower store.
She’s sleeping or dead?
Either way, it is pretend.
Where’s my friend?
Is she asleep?
Is she hungry?
She doesn’t eat.
Is she dead?
On the floor?
Is she starving?
She wants more.
Of something she can’t reach,
Laying down.
Maybe I could hand her something if I was around.
A friend, a friend.
They pick you up when you are down.
But I am no friend of who I’m looking for.
Some less, maybe more.
Underneath the floor?


The little things I used to crave have fallen underneath my grave.
The touch, the thought, the taste…
are all a waste.
I used to push away all the words I wouldn’t say,
now they’re coming out to play
without a care in their way.
The caring was the firewall that kept the words behind us all.
But now the care has come and gone, so words can’t tell right from wrong.
Now, it’s on. Turn me on.


A bump on the wall, a scratch in the hall
Is this for real, or not?
A voice in the brain, eyeballs so trained
Could this be me or the rot?
A drowning of sound-faced down in the ground
I think that I’ve been here before
A key, a hat, a napkin and a mask
I’ve seen all this somewhere, I’m sure
A bump in the brain,
a dream left in chains
a voice in the hall
There’s a body in the wall
It’s my body in the wall