Nothing tells a story like dust
Debris encased in concrete
Not like it’d ruin a thing
Unlike dirt under the carpet
Or sewage backing up the pipes
Not the leaves you kick: they fall under the tree
Ants in an ant mill, nescient of the breadcrumb trail
Ah, well
If I managed to get
a demon for me
I better be
one’a those O.P. protagonists
Be my guest
as I’m the host
Nevermind what I just said
Pay attention to what’s next
Nevermind today
It’ll make for a funny story someday
Nevermind me
I’m not the messenger
just the observer
I’m not exposing you
You know enough to pay me hush money
I know enough to know you don’t bluff
We know better than to open that box
Popcorn lies
Wink, soft-porn vibes
Front-row seats to the sickener
Sex sells
like your little tells
You might despise my stealth
You’re a voyeur yourself
Slowly but surely…
Holic but holly
Hopefully hectic
Faithfully at it
You’ve been working
your butt off
Now comes the payoff
Do me a favor
Own what you paid for
Their heart is now cold,
Icicle pointed at his.
His blood is warm;
Now coloring snow.
Their winter plays with
A different snowman.
Ten past ten
The clock on display
Sits still
Waits until
It can do the splits
Take it home
A quarter past nine
A stretch in the morning
Makes way for the night
Adult life sucks.
When you’d have the strength
to fight wrongdoers,
to keep your stance,
you’re just too busy
dealing with your traumas,
battling your demons,
feeling like the one to blame‒
every other day.
Any other day I’d write a wonder.
Not today.
—
There’s no use…
misused.
I could have used
a little help.
—
At times,
I can’t help but cry.
What could help but try?
—
A lot more to say;
This isn’t where I end‒
only where discretion starts.
—
Out of the blue
The now-greyest skies
Torrential rain comes
And turns me outward
Gaslit mind, mine is blind.
Sunlit eyelids, covered eyes.
Afterimage, booby prize.
It couldn’t be any different,
Out of sight, out of mind.
A snap of a finger (hypnotic drive).
Brainstorming impulse; cloudy eyes.
While karma’s a bitch,
trauma is its son.
Creativity is a burden;
It might as well die.
All the photos I refused to take,
All the group photos I was left out of,
Aren’t making it any better;
The negatives neither.
Reveries That I Call Poetry 