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Malcolm Mar 27
to the darkest crevices we all escape from each day,
clawing out, forgetting, or pretending we do
but some never leave. some linger, ghosts curled
in the marrow of regret, faces melted in the echo
of a yesterday too slow, too weak, too nothing.
it was just a second, a breath, a misstep.
a hand not raised. a word unsaid. a smile swallowed.
and that was enough to cast them away,
stitched into shadows, never spoken aloud.

regret is for the living, for those who still wake
to the hush of streetlights trembling at dawn,
who still bite into the sinew of silence
and call it survival. but the forgotten—
they are not given the mercy of regret.
only the weight of a void carved in memory’s ribs,
only the nothingness that replaces a name,
a voice, a need, a gasp lost in the static
of the world’s unseeing, unhearing hum.

to be unseen is to die while breathing.
to reach and never touch is to burn without flame.
and so they are left there, bone-thin whispers,
entombed in dim-lit corridors of almost-love,
of almost-worth, of almost-enough.
no matter how hard the blind scream,
their voices dissolve like morning frost—
thin, fleeting, never enough to shatter
the glass of a world that never saw them.

but listen.

listen to the dark, to the echoes that pulse
like heartbeats beneath the cracks of time.
they are still there. still waiting. still asking
if not to be saved, then simply to be seen.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
March 2025
Eclipsed in the Crevices
Malcolm Mar 24
She burned for knowledge,
I gave her the universe.

She was bound,
I set her free.

She carried wind and light,
I held too tight.

She left.

Love is a dream, a ghost.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
March 2025
Malcolm Mar 23
No matter how many times you flush,
the water swirls, a hopeful purge,
but someone’s always waiting, pants down,
ready to defile your porcelain peace
they squat like destiny, unshaken,
with a smirk and a stomach full of bad decisions.

You can pray for clean pipes,
but the world is a septic tank,
and everyone is just waiting their turn.

It’s better to be ******* than ****** on,
because rain might cleanse, but golden showers burn.
Respect? A myth. Decency? A joke.
They’ll step on your back, unzip,
and let loose a monologue of steaming disrespect.
You call it betrayal, they call it nature.
You wanted a handshake, they gave you a stain.
But hey, at least it was warm.

Why turn the other cheek
when you can uppercut life right in the ****?
Justice is a myth in a rigged casino,
but a fist to the groin is poetry in motion.
They tell you to be the bigger person,
but the bigger person gets stepped on.
So why wait for karma
when your knuckles can write the prophecy?

We search for truth,
digging through the filth, hoping for gold.
But some things are clearer than scripture:
Everyone’s full of ****.
The world is a never-ending restroom.
And no matter how hard you try,
you can never lock the door.
These are just some unfortunate truths.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
March 2025
All rights reserved
Malcolm Mar 22
She smiled—an angel, I swear.
We spoke like echoes of old laughter,
our coffees worlds apart, yet drawn close.

She, gorgeous. Me, just me.
She liked my style; I liked her everything.
By dusk, Italian wines and pasta await—

I don't eat pasta, but for her, why not?
Perhaps I'll dine my nerves on wine,
sip fate like a beautiful accident.

Life beautiful mystery
Unfolding in the most curious ways.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
March 2025
Malcolm Mar 22
Tick—tock, the wall blinks back,
hands circling our days like vultures.
Sunrise, sunset—another grain falls.

We count time in echoes, in light-years,
watching comets carve their nameless orbits,
wandering like satellites without a home.

Falling into the tomorrow.
We think we know
Malcolm Gladwin
Copyright March 2025
Malcolm Mar 22
Curled up close,
warm, trusting, loved.
A sigh, a stretch
A wag of tail
then silent betrayal.

He locks eyes,
innocent, unblinking.
It wasn’t him.
(Lies.)
Sis you stinky ***
Malcolm Gladwin
March 2025
Malcolm Mar 22
Warm breath,
calloused grip
she jerks like a mechanic,
I pray for mercy.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
March 2025
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