Mend or manipulate, my mind is like
A once weighty tree now spliced by my
What a dark and lonely step taken
With wide eyes, lazy speech, and breaths
Could I be your home, your inked up
Book of secrets, your brilliant fire swept
Away at night?
Crackling, ensure the ego breaks
Because devotion is absolute.
When you tell white lies I write them
On scrapped paper, glue it to the wall
And paint it over in red, absorb
The preaching phantom who died
And lingered, pretending to be a hero.
How poetic, buildings so tall that they
Scrape the sky; and what falls out?
As many forgotten as pennies on the
Floor, how many for your thoughts?
Lazy whispers of air, I think these
Hotel rooms are a blur of tan walls,
Emerald carpet, and stray thoughts.
Vacancy is an illusion, things are
Filled to the brim and beyond, an
Apology and odd ends that fray
Like rope—I want to twist back to
A time where my body was pure
And the desert air felt full. Could
You even fake it? I’m not sure I can.
There in a cloud, where the street exists
Four feet at a time and curves at every pause
In natural speech, she was with me. And,
She was with me in such a way that we both
Knew we were safe, that the crest would
Never stop kissing us with fog. It was comfort
To stare at the road and feel like I was
Staring at her sun kissed skin, to feel like she
Was also this smooth incline with an
Absolute promise to take my breath away and
To remind me of how alive I really am.
She’s every road that hugged that mountain,
She’s every breeze cool as water begging to fall,
She’s every tree with vibrancy and composure,
She’s every cliff daring me to sit on the edge,
She’s that final view that fills me up before I go home,
She’s that last righthand turn before she leaves
And gets inside because
She is home.
Sunlight ceased by the sprinkling rain
And I still taste the plum Sake and I can
Smell last night’s slip-away dream
Between you, my followers, and I, this beautiful woman is the subject of a good amount of my poetry and we went hiking today. :)
Friction, siren, motor, closure,
Cycle, stifle… insanity, however
Small the wound, the words fill
It all the same. Irreplaceable
Kind of grace, it’s so bland to
The eye but it’s muscle and
The unbreakable to the brain.
Language gets cruel after 1 am,
Words like failure, skinny, lonely,
Faded, fallen, shallow, and lost
Soak into the brooding of a past