mike-finney
American
my names mike. I'm a musician, artist, and writer of anything writable. I'm curious about everyone and anything, and forever in search of a new way to burrow through the apple. / / Toss me a message if you like something. Feedback is greatly appreciated. / Stay good, and thanks for reading.
These bristles twinge my hide,
For a second I worry of looking a poor shave.
I chuckle;
No one to impress now, silly.
I look down,
For a second I worry of looking a poor dress.
I chuckle;
Chairs aren't meant for standing,
I'll fix that, love.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
The river that flows from the depths of your soul;
It touches my hand in a sting of rain.
There is pain there, yes
In your waters.
A child afraid of the dark is in your eyes;
She looks through and sees nothing.
I am here, yes
A midst your waters.
The river brings cold to my being:
Lest I stay I die,
You breathe my life,
If I surrender I Drown,
and breathe no more.
I fear I am a blur to you now,
as the rain stings your eyes.
Your gaze eroded by water
Your gaze so cold and hollow
Promise you'll find a flame,
in the face of your flooding apathy
For not we grow cold and die.
and the river that flows from the depths of your soul,
shall take us dark and cold,
to sleep.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 3:05 AM UTC
I braced my feet; knees light,
And the lord said: You shall not fly.
I firmed my earth; legs tight,
And the lord said: You shall not run.
I took my stride; afraid in blight,
And the lord said: You shall not go.
"Why?!" I begged. "Why do others go while I stay?"
And the lord said:
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
There are words
So many words
That take much more of life
With them
As they pass
One more piece of the puzzle I could have kept
Had you just
used them.
I have given you all I can
To see your eyes
Blossom
Like old
Roses. A lot of rocks
The floor under
A sky of filth
But I am starved for words
I have dried
Watering a rock that will never
grow
They are gone
So gone
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
I often sit here and run my hands over the smooth shard of glass
that portrudes from my chest.
I feel it. Everyday. Everynight.
and wonder if someday i could yank it loose.
feel the pinch no more;
The pain of my heart as it warbles, trying to survive; cut in half.
I know i must keep one eye on the horizon, for hope ill see that day approach
If i look down, I know through this glass ill see you,
all that can be seen,
struck through my being,
and my chin will fall,
and my breath will shallow,
and my heart will
stop.
for you, in my head,
live
and all i feel,
all
is you
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
I w
O h
F a
T t
E a
N i
F l
E m
A e M f
R n A a
t S b
K r
S i
I c
T o
S f
T m E m
H a L y
A n F n
T i I a
C f N t
O e T u
U s H r
L t E e
D
I o
N f
T m
H i
E n
P e
R s
I e
N e
T d
T v
O i
H c
A e
V c
E a
T g M r
O r Y r
O e y
P e
U d
S a
H w
M a
Y y
W a
I w
L r
L y
E t
N h
D u
S
T l
E o
A v
R e
I o
N u
G t
A th
N D e
T E o n
A l y o
R I n e i ve
N G l o v
E d
U N T I L M Y I n t h e
W O R L D I S L E F T I N h a n d s o f
S H A M B L E S S P L I T U P a d I s e a s e c a l l e d
A N D A L I E N A T E D G r e e d
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
A Man will ask himself:
Is the glass taken of half
Or given of it?
We hear this tale
Unworn and aged
(Like a fine wine
Save a rich cheese
Always a decadence
An adornment so sweet.
Fruits that our mother
Blesses us with)
and look into the crystal
Search for grace
We think comes from
Wonders of the light.
But man’s feeble mind
Is so beguiled
(Hoodwinked into
Vizard
By the lures
Of such a beautiful thing
As crystal.)
And rapt with greed.
So much brawn
Is put to
Pondering the
Substance
Of the vessel
(such thought
That manifests itself
In a disease
More blood ridden
Than a
Plague)
in materialism
(the silent
Murderer
That infects the
Mind of a
worldly soul)
and has no cure
To emerge from
A field of
Medical travesty.
When all has
Passed
And man answers
for his sins,
One will in the end
Discover
the question
That never works it’s way
To the lips
(If not even
Figments of thought
In words)
What have you to say
About the fill
Of a glass
When it has
Shattered
Upon the floor?
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
It’s a curious thing what a starving man will eat. Not that you would not know what scrupulous fingers pan the earth in desperation.
You walk by near every day, methinks. Too you see him. Blink once and that boney shell will paint the back of your eyelids. Yet, you look away and dash the eye, leave him standing dark in the corner - the shadows drawing lines across his branded face; the wrinkles of a contorted sorrow.
I don’t blame you, surely, the same way you cannot blame a dim-witted hound for cowering away from the mess it has made. But you put him there, whether you tell yourself you did or not. You did. And I do blame you for that.
I know you remember that first day, with detail I’d wager. The two of you sharing a simple meal taking time as a novelty. A nice night perhaps, but your eyes are what gave you away - what swimming cries for love hid themselves in the crystal waters there held.
Whether you tell yourself he did or not, he saw it. One look like that will spear through a man and pin him to a wall, leaving him to bleed out unless some one can fuel his heart.
He knows what happened, could see through the soft maple skin birthing locks of smooth hair, all of which traced the Evan form up to your smile. But what he did not know was that he was plying with fire. He did not know the bountiful plate in front of him would be his last meal for quite some time.
I’ll let you in on a secret, though - something you’ve been told a hundred times. He loved you because you were perfect. Most would say that, a man rapt by such a feeling will fill in the holes, smooth over the cracks, and apply a fresh coat of paint, but you were different.
You, my dear, were one of those few that embodied what started the ideal of man calls an angel. A broken one in your case; an angel none the less.
But to you it’s like rain drops on your skin - it never seems to sink in, and it’s obvious you go about it that way. You have inside you the purity to crack a man in half and bleed his corruption out. But you don’t seem to realize that, and never will - I’d bet.
To you it’s just rain. and had you looked any closer, you’d have kissed the tears of a dying poet.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Thus far
I coin my faith to love
(That which so binds me to this pole,
Bidding that I press the rocky earth in with perpetual circles)
And toss such currency to faith as it hit’s the gentle waters down a cobblestone well
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
I watch each delicate thread
Pull away
(Frail twine,
The string of life,
Warn from wash and
Off white)
The plink of one more
Surrender as
One by one
Their little hands
Let go under the pressure
(Too taxing;
Cracked glass
Invasive fissures
Wiggling their way
Downward until
Wrath forces its way
To the surface)
And prepare to lose
(Control
Tumbling upward in a
Bittersweet cone of
Fermented
Nineteenseventyeight
Exquisite wine
Ready to shoot
Straight to the brain
Unraveling the ties,
Letting the pieces fall)
Myself in fragments
Scattered upon the floor
Of who I really am
(or who I never knew
But learned to grow
Apart from.
Caged in my fear
Savagely
Awaiting freedom
So prohibited
;Slavery)
Until I shed my shell
(the painted
Actionfiguretell
Of the mold
I came from.
An assembly line model
Struck in posses
Clothed in garments of
Rejected leisure)
And feel my truenity
(the gentle nature
Peel out
And bloom
Like the dark rose
I’ve seen time and time again
Amidst a lot of pebbles
Waiting so eagerly
To be picked by
The one naïve
Green soul
To let the eye fall
In color
And lick the blood of christ
So tainted
With illusion)
***** the finger
Let the blood run out
Bleed me out
( ailments birthed
of a gentle betrayal
disease my being.
embalmed of any
logic for sense
the salvation of patience is
left by the wayside;
a token for those who
stop to think )
My sanity ridded
Corpse
A poor excuse
For my former self
(falling)
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 12:27 AM UTC