Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Matthew Sutton Oct 2018
A yellow converse tied securely to my left foot
A purple converse tied securely to my right foot
Dangle on the sharp edge of the moon facing the flickering side of the sun
His hands are turning to stone
Scaling up his arms grows the shards of unsung remarks
Branded by the markings of a comprehend-er
And not that of a creator
Signified by
a Turnover of the wrist
To reveal
Calloused palms scarring over worn ambitions
And as the her face turns away
All at once  
She rounds the corner of a brick wall
The sun rotates to be unseen behind Venus
Her body is planets away - it seems
But there is a light that never goes out
For in the years to follow
Even in shadows her memory will glow
Lighting my face to varying degrees
Dependent upon the luna(r)cy of my mind
Matthew Sutton Oct 2018
Spacial vacuums siphon oxygen from my lungs

This red, white, and blue suit is a temporal abode for a terminal body

My brain is gasping in a crevice devoid of musical vaccines

The veins of my neck are slowly turn grey to match a perceived

Black dots blur-my-vision as I fumble with the radio to signal home

But the shadows of decaying light are pulling away from my fingertips

Electrical impulse has ceased to deliver sensation to my extremities

Cast upon me a lifebuoy - for the gold of my iris’s ring is unstable & therefore unsustainable

Fear strickens my body with the toxicity of a memory’s love widow

The poison of its chemical involuntarily punctures physical holes with rusted knife blade

And as the blood pools
my thoughts drown
Matthew Sutton Sep 2018
breathing techniques cannot salvage my mentality
dry - cold - gales whisking shards of icicles
jet stream frozen oxygen into my pink lungs
and as nature’s razors draw red blood
my capacity for speaking matches the bleeding
of a headspace drowning in black ink
The quills of my fingertips have been continuously dipped
Into the reservoir of dye crested by the hole in my head
a yellow sun rises anew day to cast light on these visions
a red rose withers on concrete of unwalked opportunity
a orange three-pronged leaf exists in this dissension
ambition will either
flourish to match a perpetuating green
decompose to return compost the dirt of earth
Matthew Sutton Aug 2018
A reflection - maybe that is what I see
A replication - maybe that is what I am trying to be

        and as I sit on this back-deck  
        my left foot dangles over the left railing

        and in this midnight the street-light beams with confidence
        as my eyes adjust
        The shadow grows
        Mine or your’s? - I do not know.

A miniature volcano decays between my fingertips
A moment of false peace
    -    a vapor
        come & gone
        a memory shrouded in nicotine
        lying within a bottomless ashtray  
        This is the back-yard landscape    -
Matthew Sutton Aug 2018
There are conversations in which my mental frame leaves the
                               parameters of my body.

No longer can I fathom the concept of ‘being in love’
        I witness dates
        feel as an apprentice of such a trade might
        an inadequacy to replicate the models of those before me

Gone are my indefinite moments of sanity
        Childhood is laced in linens of silk
        Soft-spoken words
        Finely crafted spontaneity lacking responsibility

Ceaseless are the times in which I must conceal the thoughts I abhor
        Depravity seems to chain my soul
        which leads to
        a Resolution in pixelation
        due to
       a visual handicap which has left my eye blind to choosing right

My friends make me happy
        but as a glass transforms back-&-forth between half-empty &
        one glance across our wooden dinner is all it takes
My thoughts to liquidate into bars of gold
Telling myself I must exchange their conversation for my motivation
        heavy on the mind
        light keystrokes

Once i reawaken at 1 A.M. from my conscious-coma
i ask myself
What good is it?
        To be thoughtful
        Yet have no action
What good is it?
        To fantasize
        Yet refuse your own inclination for renovation
What good is it?
        To be dramatic
        Yet have no one at your performance

I do understand what it means to ‘be’

        Watching Tuesday suns burn in loops of ongoing weeks
                              -    lacking peaks    -
        As I continue to lay under clothes line
        Wrapped in a melody of melancholy

But I do not understand what it means to be ‘me’

        My mind feels as a lemon candy might,
        sour at first bite -
        hollow on the inside, then gone
        Without ever truly knowing what it tastes like.
Matthew Sutton Jul 2018
“You are not an artist.
You are not an artist.”

        What photos must I shoot
        How many cigarettes must I smoke

It is scary, but - I want to embody the things which destroy minds

Summer vibes feel like radiation

Use this alcohol to eradicate
The proposition - that I will be ‘okay’

My phone is on airplane mode

My ambition is floating - as a feather might -
Down to the depths

I cannot finish my own sentences

Bury my expectation with my religion

        And it’s funny
        Because I have resolved my mind to avoid romantic
        But, alas - I do day-dream
        Of a girl’s face & hair - for it has appeared in my dreams four
        And I awake to Deja-Vu as her face appears in conscious

I can imagine & I can see, but - they have become one in the same
Could not fantasize asking
Your hand in mine

Oh how I wish to cry
To sob in any light so long as you are in sight
Someone to reassure me, that - yes
“There is an end to the night.”

But I cannot. I suppress it in drives. In music videos. In writing. In self-speaking when I have only me to keep company.

Kick me off the team.
I do not know what I need.
If I could lead, as I once did.

But I have left concern in the refrigerator
With empty bottles & cans
Maybe I will return tomorrow to salvage the cents of my malleable integrity  
Won’t you reliquinish me of it ?

For I have sipped the poison of honesty
Regretfully it tastes like honey
Lustful - Fleeting - Sugary - Intoxicating

— The End —