This is what we call it, now

With a fork and a knife

That shine

Oh they shine

Cut open my face

Let it bleed

Because I have a mask

That falls and it slips

And I shove it back on

To see that it’s there

But I like my vulnerabilities?

I like to use them

As distractions

Confirmations

Of how it is I feel

For I’m as lost as all of you

Cut open my face

Carve apart the skin

Shatter the bone

And with creaking footsteps

See what lies beneath

I am disgruntled

Disgruntled, I am

For no one truly knows

It is only me that doesn’t know

Is it only me that doesn’t know

Whose face I plaster on

I want you

Put down the utensils

Release your sullen grip

You are no surgeon

I’ll take it myself

New age weaponry

And I’ll pry apart muscle

And flesh and dry skin

And I’ll tug with flexed tendons

That tingle in strength

But I won’t feel a thing

Save the deepest of deep

That runs in my veins

Curiosity

As I cut open my face

Hollow out eyes

Crumble porcelain lips

I’m cutting open my face

With this fork and this knife

To let my bloody head fall free.

.me.

Laahhhhhhhve It.

Love

Love poems

The poems of love

That you see

Remind you

Of the emptiness

That love

Just cannot be.

I make no sense

I make no rhyme

I make no love

By choice

I see my eyes

I see my face

I see what love

Spews from my voice

And I hate it.

Have you ever written honesty

Written truth upon a page

And expected glory to find you

Expected not this smoking rage

For life is not a poem

Not the life outside these doors

So I’ll stay within

And spin and spin

Upon these inky floors.

.me.

Offensive Time!

I don’t

Like

Love poems.

I don’t like ‘em

And it’s not for lack of love

The ability to love

I have

But I never see the feelings

Those pleading, burning feelings

That poetry entwines

Inside sweet, perfumed words

Returned

Without a second’s

Doubt

Returned

Without a frown and a shrug

Love is not a tennis match

Unless you play

Against yourself

And leap and bound to and fro

Across the court

In order to catch that flailing ball

In order to catch your thumping heart

And send it back your proper way

Love is not a poem

It is a stain upon white linens

A black inky river that scorches the starch

And it blinks with such innocent

Such naïve wedded bliss

That promises life

And love

And happiness

It is no binding contract

It is no words of eternity

It is you

Yourself

And all alone

You feed them scrumptious poetry

Spoon feed them printed hearts

And they swallow it

With lumps in their eyes

They can’t see

How smooth

You’d love to make it

They cannot provide you with passion

But you pretend they always have

And to convince yourself

Of their fervor

Of your paralyzed poor heart

Of that needle that they hold

You write yourself

A love poem.

.me.

Err

I’ve got here

A shopping bag

A nylon bag

It’ll stretch

And I’ll stuff it with bobbles

And smiles

And laughs

And I’ll stuff it with sobbing

And talking

And loving

And I’ll stuff it with you

And your heart

And your voice

And I’ll stretch it

And pound it

And shake out the air

And I’ll suffocate the insides

Make ‘em fit

They’ll all fit

Organizaion takes time

Time that I never took

And to take all that time

To acknowledge

The need

For taking

And time passes on

And my bag will not give

But im trying and trying

To push what I’ve got

And to convince those around

And my own aching heart

It’s enough

I’ve enough

For ever.

Forever?

I’ve enough

For ever

The forever

Without you.

.me.