I'm staring through cigarette smoke,
having a drink of *** and pepsi (I ran out of coke)
listening to an 8 minute Periphery song
an in-depth conversation,
the ticking of typing
patio lights
and staring
into nothing
in between stanzas
I'm humming alone,
and tapping my feet,
It's 1:09am
and I work at 6am,
morning fatigue
can get on it's knees.

The result of my previous work
you’ve read is not something
that has just flowed down a
current of creativity, dont be fooled,
the amount of wasted words wilted,
stuck to wine stained cedar desks and
lost in distraction of cigarette smoke
and the blood of a workdays fist,
the open windows
on a computer of
unfinished work
is only proof that I can see
a reflection in the screen
when it’s turned on too,
the lament of the mouse
and “don’t save” turns the clicking
into grinding teeth,
oh, yes..
sometimes I can write a piece in minutes,
but other times, I’m either rekindling a
relationship of drywall and knuckle,
pouring drinks,
lighting cigarettes,
answering phone
calls, coughing through
fields of wet cement
in my throat,
or staring at the paper as
a mirror in a casket,
when I sit down and write
with cigarettes and drinks
the outside world doesn’t exist
but at the same time
reality has never
existed as much as it has
at that moment.

I've kept pillows in my window
for years and I've never
bought curtains,
the sun always peels open
holes between cushions
and I've never done anything about it,
I've put almost transparent pillows,
thinly stitched, the sun still makes
it through, and I've never bought curtains,
I'll wake up in the morning from
ray nudged eyelids but the
room's still dark and I've never
done anything about it.

I haven’t been
drinking much lately,
I haven’t wrote
anything in a while,
and I always knew
putting the two
hand in hand was never fine,
a healthy vice is trapped
by an unhealthy outlet,
and the curious kid looking
for a spark
had dried his fork,
I do miss the teeth sinking
into my throat
having the pain
run to my hands,
I miss waking up
with cinderblocks
glued to my scalp,
the nightstand used to eat
up the empty bottles
and the stomach pains are
now keeping me up at night,
I remember whiskey stained
chest hair and biting at hangnails,
****** fingers and the
taste was fuel,
I remember writing
and waking up
and erasing
and waking up,
what is a poet?
I’m going to have
a drink and this was
written sober.

When I was 17 I watched a man **** himself,
I remember the morning like it was yesterday,
the air bit at my heels
and it was too cold to be at the skatepark,
there was a lounge area of
weathered tables and pine trees
about 50 yards north,
I still remember the look in his eyes
confusion filled mine,
he was old, around 70
and I kept skating around,
he just sat there with
saltwater in his veins,
holding a long barrelled
30-30 it looked like,
I kept skating and fixating
my eyes on what he was holding,
it manipulated my vision,
reached out to hopeful ignorance
and yanked it through my throat,
we never made eye contact,
his eyes were buried down
a steel thief,
I kept rolling back and forth,
and I never knew thunder had
the ability rip the bearings
from the wheels,
the crack turned the bark
on the tree behind him
to a yelp,
and I’ve never saw blood fly
until that point,
I still remember how fast
it turned from a picnic table
to a crime scene,
how aimlessly the yellow tape
flew in the wind, as if nothing
ever happened,
time forged a signature
on a death note to man
who never felt the chill
bite at his heels that day,
that barrel screaming for forgiveness
knocked at a door with perspective
standing at the peephole,
I saw myself in his shoes
when I saw the life leave his body,
I went back that day
and saw the city worker
spraying the pavement,
running an eraser over
the pen-painted picture
in my mind,
the chill shattered my
porcelain heels that
day and shooed me
away from the
griptape forever.

I still live with my parents
and at 2am I walk around
the house with ***
stained boxers and drink
caffeinated drinks,
when I drink, I drink,
when I run out of money
I drink my parents *****,
I smoke and my dad
******* hates it,
I can barely afford it,
I work 3 times a week if I’m lucky,
and buy clothes I dont need,
and food I shouldn’t eat,
I ***** about religion
on social networking
sites, and I dropped out
of going to university,
I want to be a writer,
I still live at home with
my parents,
are the two synonymous?
my sister is 17,
18 in December,
and she’s going to school
for the love of GOD
stick with it
dont be like your brother,
I know I have a kind heart
and cry when my tire eats roadkill
but compassion doesn’t pay the bills,
I can sit here and personify my life
as dragging a worn sock full of pebbles
down the street and giving a sock to myself
as a gift for someone who wanted pebbles

but I’m not,
factuality’s sanded down
into some form of actualities  
that resemble anthology,
I am by no means dumb,
my comprehensive abilities
are above average, I know I could
have gone through school
with ease, for christ’s sake
I was taking english literature,
I sure use a lot of religious expletives
for a sickened nihilist,
regardless of the fact,
my boxers are dry now.

I'm tired of the past,
the decisions I made,
tenfold I've expressed
displeasure of every action,
but every fraction of pleading
is never enough to rid
minds of tattered bedsheets,
or the hues that make up
the painting I've been
trying to erase,
but these colours dont run,
and there's ink coloured umbrage
in these veins and it flows
at piqued destinations,
sitting behind eyes
that see to well,
today, I know will
eventually become the past,
but I've been trying to
drag the pigment
of yesterday into something
tomorrow won't look back on,
and tow a sodden eraser
over wet ink,
I can promise that
I've changed and
no where in the book
written by regret
does it say
that anyone will believe me,
and I'm beginning
to accept that,
everyday I have to stare
at intangible scars left
by blades tipped
with foretimes
and the ringing of
these wind chimes are becoming
white and I'm getting tired,
it's putting me to sleep
and I've given up on
counting sheep because
the breeze of attempting to
forget my past is soothing enough,
these colours dont run,
and I wonder if tomorrow
I'll wake up in colorant sheets.

every 1:27am
I come to my garage
and I sit with wine
and converse with
an out-of-place nightstand,
june bugs aimlessly run into
stacked boxes and
heartbroken drywall wink
at my knuckles,
only tangibility could express the
scattered personality of this garage
but somehow I feel at home,
unplugged freezers,
shop brooms drenched in sawdust,
broken hockey sticks,
half stained 2x4’s
clout my memories with
wanting to be young again,
shooting pucks with dad,
having laughs roll
off my tongue again,
sweeping grass off
the driveway, and watching
my sister fail at riding a bike,
now she’s going to university
and I’m sweeping up
cigarette butts in this garage,
I still see the skateboard
I broke my wrist on and I
have to work in the morning,
at 1:53 I’m rolling up news papers
and hitting curve balled
june bugs and I have
to cut this short cause
my girlfriend called and she needs
a ride home from the bar //


3:17

If you enjoy having every fibre of your consciousness picked apart by literary ***** at 2 am on a Wednesday,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you enjoy fighting over incorrect grammar usage,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to constantly have your eyes rolled at every time you question a metaphor,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to be swept off your feet and then promptly put back down in the same piece of writing,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to feel worried when the phone isn't answered,
Fall in love with a writer.

Mood swings and sleepless nights?
Fall in love with a writer.

If tangible expression conveys unequivocal compassion,
Most of the time, don't fall in love with a writer.

If you want misinterpret pieces of writing because of the uncertainty of the writers sanity,
Fall in love with one.

If you find that yesterday you were dating a completely different person, if you find that your skin is often referred to as porcelain cigarette ash, if your eyes are viewed like the the first time you saw two flies *******, if the lump in your throat lives on ballpoints, you've fell in love with a writer.

There's no turning
back at this point,
falling out of love
with a writer is like
saying goodbye to a
phone with no dial tone.

the worst thing I’ve ever done
was letting the world
know that I write,
it’s not the 2am phone calls
asking if I’m okay,
it’s not the regret of
of relationships or
the running away,
it’s the look in my mothers
eyes when I write about dying,
it’s the regard to kin
when holding certain
emotions in,
forging positivity
and relaying
the antiquities
of struggle,
the minuscule
moments of will
drill into minds
painting all kinds
of doubtful abstracts,
creating spousal transacts
of how to fix their son,
it’s not the questions
about what I mean when I
say my skin spits goose flesh
or my eyes wrap yesterday
in spruce mesh that
eventually frays,
it’s the days where
I get kindred
phone calls
wondering if I’ll pick up
because of writing
the night before
stating that
I’m skating
on thin ice,
I dont want them to worry
I’ll be fine,
but for now it’s the pen
that has to unwind
the noose from
confining words
I refuse to say.

I've tabbed
Hello Poetry
and PornHub,
and I'm here
writing this,
I need a bit
of foreplay

“why don’t you write a book?”

they’ll expect
a second

if consistency
and money
was consistant
see, I’d write a book

“you should write a book”

poetry is a dying art,
you’ll find a needle
every now and then
but the hay is bound
together with cellphones
and bongs
and unexpected
suicides

no one wants to hear
how sleep deprived you are
because your satin feels
like moth wings
and how your skin
feels like
a burning painting,
why cigarettes kiss
harder and how love
feels like the bottom
of a dinner plate

you’ll find compassion
and understanding
but finding a diamond in
the rough is
only valuable if
you can escape

if you put me in a cage
would I be a rat or a petition?

would you sign it or
watch until the screams you
can’t listen to
my cries for help
me save me and
give me the key
to life is fighting
through the
bars and pubs
are nothing but a vice
grip tied tight to the
bricks that can’t wipe
the cement from it’s eyes
tell the stories that eat
at chipped away skin
covered in spiders
digging to the core
of the earth is wrapped in
expectations and relation
ships sailing with no sail
manless and handless
mannequins reaching out for
help confined by my vein
minds and empty hearts
are suppose to carry love,
at least that’s the perception
that I cant pull to conception
built on deception with exception of  
reception’s inception,
a look inside my mind
your own ******* business.

I want to meet myself,
as if I’ve never tried to
understand my self,
run into him at a party,
drunk, at 3am hearing what
he's ****** up, and how
misses youth
and hates cancer
and himself,
I want to watch him
writing at coffee shops
and contemplate saying
hello because he looks like
he wants to die,
I want to bump into him
on the subway and apologize,
I want to pick apart his mind,
stand awkwardly beside him
at a crosswalk,
listen to his cross-talk
and how he refuses to capitalize
god’s name when he writes about him,
watch as he writes this piece
and tries to understand why
he wants to understand himself so badly that he wants to  
stand at his own funeral, being his own shoulder,
wishing he could slide out of his own shoes

I’ll never let it show,
but this pain still grows
I’ll keep on wearing this mask
at least in place of a rope
until I’ve gained the strength
to stand on broken bones
because I know that someday,
life again will grow

I’d love to find myself a suit,
drive 12 minutes and
sit on a barstool that won’t
stop screaming,
be able to smoke
inside again,
**** in *******
stained toilets,
push on locked
stalls and trip over
high heels that reach
out from under like
ashes ready to be flicked,
have makeshift conversations
with a 62 year old
old bartender who throws
an ashtray and a glass
of jack on the bar
at 9:12pm every day and
spurns at irregulars,
harlequin nods
at pseudos and
tire at denials,
pay a $13 cab-fare
and let him keep a 20
for listening to me *****
about how I should be able to
smoke inside the cab,
find myself questioning
every single piece I’ve ever
written while spinning
beneath my sheets,
wake to work
and work to 5,
I dont yearn for much
just a kiss for when
I leave and one when I come
home, if she's still up.

I’ve been questioned on
my late night walks,
why do I do it?
the repetitive cracks
sing hedonist soliloquies
at every avoidance,
the streetlights eat away
at forfeiting darkness,
vomiting garbage cans
spew synthetic carrion
and winking storefronts
****** nightfallers,
trash kissing curbs
pushing away affection
cry out for help,
cigarette butts cloud
sandy sidewalks
and hug dragging soles,
passing cars and
mindless youth
spewing timeless
nothings out car windows,
cop cars and crisis topped
middle-agers stumbling their way
to fast food and
regretful forenoons,
I’ve been questioned
on where I’m walking to,
but never what I’m walking from,
no matter where I go,
I find myself
burning my throat
with coffee at 2am

It is as it is,
and was ere,
again I’m paired to
restroom pantile,
resilient sickness
can redefine docile
to nothing northerly,
o'er the day is
only forgery
to an nightly
mainstay,
this white flag
has been waving
to porcelain for
oft fortnights
shining footlights
on an innocent reflection,
allay this suffocation,
let me breathe again,
foremost is always
surviving tomorrow,
though I'm a swain to
the ***** of today.

I’m sorry for wearing your
shoulders down,
for wearing a rusted crown this entire time,
for disguising this threadbare throne,
I promise I’ll make every
burden of yours my own,
I’ve said you’ve ran from me
and I’ve held it against you,
there's no haste,
I understand
I've seen it second to you
and thirdhand,
and instead of servitude
I see aptitude,
you will escape,
sometime's instead of
pulling through the vice grips
you have to spin the other way,
I understand

theres nothing vein
in putting your pain before,
you’ve stopped running
yet when trouble tramples
as hard as it has,
the footprints are in cement,

it's easy turning a blind eye
to a mirror when the reflection
is a projection seen before,
I'll stay tight in vice
and keep my laces loose.

mossy rocks and harbours /
freshly cut grass and ant hills in the cracks of pavement /
the way my mom dressed in the 90's /
the taste of whiskey and the smell of wet wood /
a couple on a beach and a low tide /
spilling beer on clean satin /
of breakups, suicide, and cheap wine /
running from problems, never escaping and muddy shoes /
chai tea and petrichor /
a room, an open window and oversized white curtains and a breeze /
escaping writers block and tears, smiles, blood, and 100 poems /
drinking alone, a bar and a book, small talk, and silence /
searching and finding, lion's teeth and yellow-stained skin /

Child covered in
animated **** brought
up by the creators tongue,
buried down through growth
by hands that feed,
her self confidence
is a rose under
suffocating weeds,
crawling their way
up her arms,
misfortune is a
pernicious gift;
not being able to
choose family,
she’s owned at
seventeen,
striving for an
evergreen family tree,
but stuck under a willow,
with only a pillow
to gather rain,
her clean water
only comes from the pain
that the wind brings in,
blowing palms painting
imperfect skin,
she’s a tangible truth
but a verbal fiction,
telling stories of what
she wished happened,
but for now
she’s a
product of
forenoon resentment,
with endless time spent
under the willow tree
watching the leaves
trickle their way through
the sands of time,
until she turns eighteen,
counting sheep,
and at only seventeen
she's too sore to sleep

I’m still in awe at* the fact
that I can stand straight,
I can’t tell if I’m mindless
or spineless, whenever I’m
asked to leave, I leave
I never slam the door,
when I’m asked to come back
I drop what I’m doing and knock,
the door isn’t always answered
and that’s what picks away
at my backbone,
I stay planted
on the same doormat I’ve
tainted with leaving footprints,
steadfast shinsplints are nails on
chalkboards,
I keep running,
but you know I’ll be back,
keep that doormat clean.

Your eyes are different,
I’ve written about eyes
in the past,
I’ve been metaphorical but
not genuine,
I miss your eyes,
even when they’re staring at me,
they have this ambiguity,
they’re grey clouds,
sometimes they rain,
and they hide the sun,
I’ve never seen anything like it,
I know you’re broken,
theres secrets hiding
behind your teeth,
I know your eyes tell stories
I’ve tried to read,
but you keep forcing me
to bookmark,
every time,
from what i can remember,
when we kiss,
it’s like losing my virginity
for the last time,
everything is primitive;
a tangible omega, always,
I’d like to feel I’ve
been in love before,
but your eyes are different,
they write scriptures on napkins,
they burn so easily

A broken man can break even more,
a piece of shattered glass
can always splinter
into smaller pieces;
they hurt more to step on,
rock bottom is only
a paradox,
I’ve never met an end
of hopelessness,
a blade of grass can only
sway until it’s been cut,
and I’m trimming myself,
I’ve been trimming myself
the entire time,
at once I thought life was being lifted,
nothing that’s held high stays high,
arm’s begin to tire,
I once viewed sunsets
and skylines as timelines
to progress,
I now only reminisce,
the repetition of worn
down faces and barren
chest spaces show me
that every mirror
is double sided,
and the reflection in which
I once confided
now spits in my face,
when I was young
I thought I could withstand
being a broken man,
I could never see the echo of
my eyes in the hourglass and
I was too young to young to understand
that it was a problem, but now
It’s tipped on it’s side and
I’m itching at the sand on my skin.

She ran red lipstick over
her fingertips before she
ripped out my heart
to give it colour,
she put it back, mind you,
I can't say she broke it,
I can't even say she ripped it out,
it was involuntary,
I gave it to her,
and the thought of
rejection made me
take it back,
an unfinished
cigarette put back in the pack
when lit later, nothing tastes the same,
bitter almost,
she set fire to it
and ran from the smoke,
she came back once it all settled,
and all that's left is ash,
I'm always caught saying
"Sorry this my last one"
but I'd let her smoke me empty,
my heart is still red and the lipstick
has worn,
and that's what made me realize
she's the one

Hurt people and feel bad about it
keep hurting people and keep
feeling bad about it,
get hurt and
don’t be resilient,
wallow

make beer your
only companion,
**** a lot,
play the piano
on your thighs
when you’re stressed,
tap your feet,
it’s going to sound terrible
and that’s okay,
you’ll get used to it,
tremors will send
pain to your veins
like broken tea bags

don’t sleep,
eat terribly,
put turkey on
bread and keep
the skin on,
have a beer with
every meal
have whiskey with
every meal,
it doesn’t matter

hurt and feel bad,
know you’ll keep hurting
and keep *******
keep drinking,
read your mistakes
bookmark them,
you’ll keep coming back,

smoke cigarettes and
don't cry,  
fear death only when
you're dead,
and have a thin wallet,
there’s no such thing
as a rich poet,
cause we’re all
broken in some way.

Thus far I’ve lived a
pretty care-free life,
disregarding consequences
like a bee sting,
I want you to watch
my footsteps,
look at the direction
they went, don’t see if your
foot fits, it’s not a hard
path to mould,
I see potential,
you make 20/20
unequivocal,
transpicuous youth
floats over my skin
like it was yesterday,
your eyes tell stories of
pain, it scares me to
even see a diminutive
of myself in you,
you absorb like
cigarette smoke hugging
couch cushions,
and exhale burdens
to your skin,
you define rarity
your clarity will come soon,
don’t give up,
your road is endless,
dont veer,
in your horizon
the sun never sets unless
you pull it down
and you’ve been in
the dark for so long,
you live and love with
the lights off,
you can’t see the tread
that I’ve learned to
dread with your head in
the sand, open your
blinds and let the sun
trickle in and heal your scars,
it’s waiting for you,
the mirror you look in
is distorted on your
own grounds,
I look in the same
mirror every time
I open up photo albums
looking at your ice cream
stained blouses smiling
with mom,
you might not know
but I look at those
pictures more than
you think,
your millstone eyes
showed as life
grew gray hair,
your despair isn’t
tattooed, but my past is,
look at my footfall
and read my eyes,
my cumbersome  
direction is a
tough pill to swallow
and where I am
theres no water
to wash it down.

I can’t tell if
it’s my mind or my
cigarette stained
t-shirts, both can
make a woman run,
the trail dust stirring
is starting to make my
skin burn, I’m starting
to learn that maybe
love isn’t for everyone,
it has an acquired taste,
sometimes it takes
a plague to kindle
a sense of realization
but I’ve solely realized
that one can only die
so many times before
love settles with the dust,
I thought only my lungs were
black but I guess when
you’re that close to the heart
the pain is bound to rub off,
my chest is wet eraser
scribbling over a dry pencil-written past,
falling in love seems to be a falsity,
everything ends,
lit like a small city
but you can see the smog
from a mile away,
stop coming to visit
you’re not welcome

It’s a normal night
a little bit of ***** and
the sky has something
in it’s teeth,
I can’t pick at it
all i can do is look
as it smiles down at me,
the chill peeking into my skin
as everything around me
seems so content,
raspy footsteps around
a frozen yard trickle
down my earlobes,
moonlit cigarette smoke
dancing like scissors
across my upper lip,
the sound of nothing
but tearing paper
kindling before my eyes,
distant cars
singing roadside echo’s
charing my ears
like burning flower pedals,
and all that crosses my mind
is the how unfathomable
the beauty of nighttime is,
I find myself daydreaming
when the sun sets
and sleep walking
when it rolls over,
the emptiness of
eventide is a glass
half empty being
topped off half full,
repressing every
ominous feeling of
daytime, but the
one thing that
will subside not
is the ubiquitous
thought of you.

Not sure if people keep
losing interest
or just lie to begin with,
it's hard hiding pain
with noisome eyes,
people will begin
to ask questions,
and I will begin
to answer,
after years of hiding
I find it harder and harder
to tint the truth,
wait..
theres a piece of me
that is starting to realize
that it's me,
maybe interest isn't being lost,
when I let you into my mind
it's as if you coexist with my
mental state and
with correspondence
comes the thought of
reciprocative standpoints,
my hands are calloused
from pushing;
making pulling
insurmountable,
It's my mind
painting caution lines,
all I'm asking for
is a rooftop view,
staring down
with a bird's eye
view on you and I,
I'm not ashamed
of pushing, cause it's led
me to today, but I'm afraid
of continuing, cause I don't
want tomorrow
to be like yesterday,
I'm content,
and my hands
are in my pockets.

I miss the confusion
of who had
cigarette breath
when we kissed,
or who’s pack was who’s,
but what I miss the most
is the thought of
killing myself with
the one I love.
                                 MJB

your name
tattooed on
the inside of
my chest and
every time my
heart beats
it reminds me
of you

subsiding repetition
seemed inconceivable
and to reside at the
brink of light was all but
but achievable,
and to rebuild you must first
fall apart but to find peace
with mind you must
first with heart                    MJB

I wish it was easier for
people to forget, if things left their
mind as easy as they let
them in, tough skin
wouldn’t wear thin
as easy as it is right now,
my past is full of imperfections
and bad decisions, leaving unstitched
incisions beneath the brink of sanity,
but who’s isn’t? every time falsities
start, my mind races
with my heart to contemplations on
when to finish, they tattoo the past
of others on their insecurities,
fuelling the fire that burns a hole
into respect and reputation,
creating a vicious cycle
of revenge and envy,
each gossip verbally vomited
into naive ears pulls the marionette
strings of perception into the road normally
taken, two roads may have diverged
at a yellow wood, but when the ignorance
burns yellow to ash,  the road less taken
seems blocked, so the next time you hear
something about another, don’t be too quick
spread the word, the game of
telephone can get a little distorted when
the next phone call
you get is that they
were found hanging from
a rope.
                                MJB

the things that last
never happen overnight
but tonight seems
to last too long,
this feeling hasn’t left
me since you did,
a gut full of
“what if’s”
consume my
mind into
“why the **** didn’t I’s”
maybe there is someone
better off for you ,
someone who
has his **** together,
who’s ambition
isn’t a closet of
empty hangers,
darkness doesn’t
resolve on it’s own,
this stomach ache
of over-smoked
cigarettes and regret
lingers upon hacks
and coughs,
the smoke consumes my
lungs, reaching from the
ground up,
a house beneath ashes
isn’t rebuilt by the owner
alone.

I’ve been addicted to many things,
some things better than the others,
and I have yet to categorize her,
when she left me,
I started withdrawing
the moment she stopped calling
my name to hurry up
with the sliced hot dogs,
the moment the complaints
about her tea being to cold
left the mould her voice
built inside my head,
a mould filled with
unfinished memories
cut short by good intentions
and being cracked by
tensions of mental state,
being happy on my own
was the reason and the
latter concluded at treason,
a nicotine addiction
to her; fiction,
i share both
with hope of only
shaking one,
each cigarette
I smoke I know
kills me,
every kiss,
every chai tea
double double bought
is a gunshot not
to my lungs
but only
a feeling
that comes
and never leaves,
but my addiction
everyday seems to
categorize itself
the more my heart
ends up fitting
the mould

it’s late
or early,
depends how you
look at it,
only my hands and
heart are cold,
smoke filled garage,
rusted tools
hang themselves
in front of me,
paintless brushes,
painted brushes and
baseless screwdrivers
ashy floors and drywall
painted with holes
from fists and hockey
pucks, church pews
of razor-slit,
spray painted
by angsty young
i sit upon,
unfinished projects
are suppose to sit on
the other side of
the workbench.

years of negativity
like seeing your
reflection on the other
side of the glass barrier,
I never looked both ways
when crossing the road
because of years
of being blind
to anything that
came close,
waking up
felt like finding
a new strand of
cancer somewhere
every day,
I heard nothing but
voices, I knew I
was hurting myself
but I never stopped to
look both ways,
I realized it wasn’t
just me that I was
impaling with sadness,
sometimes darkness
shines light on life
more than light itself
ever will,
at the bottom of
every bottle my heart
would sit and drown until
I ended up swallowing it
back into my chest,
slowly the whisky
is veering from
being stained red,
every mirror
reflects more than just
a face,
it shows a past
so dark the
background
is the focus,
instead of looking
at the rocks beneath
my feet crumbling
I’ve been taking steps back,
hands like blenders
left on too long
are reaching towards
pulling the plug,
looking both ways
has always been
a problem for me,
but I  finally
caught a glimpse
at what happens
to the left and realized
that change is right.

don’t let your
lipstick wear,
if it feels the urge to,
put some more on,
if you can’t find the
stick in your purse,
just try and get through
the night, the morning
will be kind,
i promise it’s not
a waste of time,
don’t let your
shirt drip,
don’t let your
buttons wave
beneath your waist,
choose a pair that
fits tighter around
the hips,
tomorrow will be kind,
use your eyes to talk
use your eyes to deny,
use your words with me,
tell me where your
lipstick is hiding.

past relationships
like useless barnboard,
scabs of shaved wood pasted
over each other only to
sit beneath abstracted
paintings of ****-less
cupboards collecting
dented ***** of dripping
varnish cans and
cigarette ashes,
still has a use, though.
I always ***** my hand
on it.

I haven’t felt her
in 5 days,
I haven’t felt
how delicate
the rim of her
mouth feels
against mine,
how enticing it
is to get a taste,
I have to taste
all of her,
they way she
flows through me,
she’s mends all thats
broken, then breaks
it when she leaves,
it’s only been 5 days,
I miss the bitter taste,
the way she makes
my tongue curl
up like a slug
swallowing tablespoons,
she pulls me in,
and hangs me with
the rope she yanked,
scraping the bottom
of the barrel,
for even a scent of what
will remind me of her,
every taste
is like losing my
virginity for
the last time,
and she became
so much more
than a past-time,
so much more than
something to
pass time,
it’s been 5 days,
soon to be back
at the crack of the
new year,
she’s a constant
resolution
that I can’t wait
to break,
or is it me she can’t
wait to break,
she leaves a bitter taste
on my mind
and thoughts that flow
through my veins,
she’s someone I can
thank, she’s someone
I try so hard to forget,
she dictates and mediates,
a forged signature
on bills passed to
loved ones
that I’m okay,
but only for the night
she’s anger, she’s happiness
she paint’s crimsons kisses
on my knuckles,
and heals cardinal
crevices in my mind,
it’s only been 5 days,
I’ll see you soon
I’ll taste you soon

she told me that I need
to get some sleep,
she has a child
and works ‘till 12am
most weeknights,
then spends time
with me, until
the bags beneath
her eyes become
enough to
outweigh the need
to be WITH me,
she lays tired
but sleeps awake
until she heres “mommy”
then naps
until 1pm,
and I just get up
hungover,
it may be the
need for common-law
thats making me doubt.

sure,
i need to
stop drinking
and stop
smoking but
when bad habits
become consistencies
that let you
survive the nights,
the ability to
shake the
rusty smell off
the fibres on your
back become
a bookmark
that prevents you
from turning the page
in a fear driven
halt of wondering
what happens next,
the stench that
trails through  
teeth to nose
is a tail to
a comet that won’t
burn out,
the embers of each
cigarette that kiss my lip
burn out like previous
feelings towards past lovers,
I was in a state
of loving memory of
having love and memories
until a therapeutic graze
of absolution picked me up
and brushed the bruises off
the bottom of my feet
given by
stomping the ominous
solitary of rock bottom
so many ******* times,
I still drink
and I still smoke
but when a
tedious whisper
tells you to stop
hurting and stop
hating when hurt
and hate is all you’ve
felt for fortnights
exceeded
you can’t just pick
the scars off of your
skin and liver
and walk past mirrors
without urges of
cardinal knuckles
and tremors coexisting,
i wish to stop
like you tell me to,
i wish washing my clothes
would dredge the stench
of yesterday clean,
but maybe the toxicity
of the past is stained on
my skin and
not my clothes.

I have to
hide
my drinking
from her
and I
love that,
thank god
for autocorrect.

I wish you loved me how
you loved him,
you speak with
reverence to memory
and not of present,
emotions run not
through your veins;
with me it seems,
I haven't shed tear
10 years yet
the lack of
sentiment lies
within you,
i feel achieved
when i hear an
“i love you”,
I’m listening through
static; thinking I hear
clearly but being drowned
out by what’s louder,
your touch is deafening
to clarity, and I don’t know
if they felt this way too,
reaching out to transparency
never seemed so tangible,
and being grazed by
fingertips of yesterday never
felt so confusing,
your emotion seems
only soluble through
my tears, and my tears
only seem to fall
with your emotion
I wish you loved me
like you loved him.

she told me that I need
to get some sleep,
she has a child
and works ‘till 12am
most weeknights,
then spends time
with me, until
the bags beneath
her eyes become
enough to
outweigh the need
to be WITH me,
she lays tired
but sleeps awake
until she heres “mommy”
then naps
until 1pm,
and I just get up
hungover,
it may be the
need for common-law
thats making me doubt.

it’s hard to bring back
to life someone who’s
already a shadow suspended
by dust in sunlight.
a partially eaten heart
trailed by ******
bread crumbs with no
start in sight.
replications of
past complications
forge a plagiarized
grin notarized by a shaky
pen on abstract paper.
bringing back to life
sand-burnt knuckles
reflecting tremors
through coils in the bottle
seems anything but feasible,
recovery and relapse are
few and far between
with a fine line that
splits at the seam
without warning,
the ice meeting
the bottom of the glass
again is a slow
graze of fingernails
across chalkboards,
help seems out of reach
when the leather begins to
leech to your skin
with each question repeated
over and
over and ******* over,
perceptions of positivity
can only withhold the
constant of being
a placeholder in
the tangent of
consistencies,
but light has the ability to break
through windowsills
and curtains,
yes I speak from experience
because it’s the only thing
that wakes me up in the morning,
but as I become use to
walking dead
I found my light that
wakes me up
in the afternoon
and puts me to sleep
at night

It’s odd sitting here with the
consistency of the toxicity
flowing through my veins,
the consecutive order is
fuelling the regularity to my brain,
every negative thought weaved
through sobriety surfaced through
every lie t

It’s sometime past midnight
on a wednesday,
stumbling around the
house once again,
where floorboards
cry out and I resent
every thing I said
and held back,
every cigarette
that whispered
until my lungs
turned black,
shards of beer
labels collide
with dust piles,
ashes skidded
aimlessly on
the pine,
hopelessly wandering
looking into
hindsight
was only
a mess to
clean up,
I haven’t eaten today
but the dishes are *****,
it’s 11:30
and I’m glued
to the bedsheets
as the bed weeps
with each toss and turn
comes contemplation
to cross and burn every
memory embedded,
the bedroom smells
like cloudy ashtrays
and things unfinished,
our paths crossed
in october,
and yesterday was
tough on everyone.

the past isn’t something
to forget about,
she has blonde hair
she complains about it,
always putting it up or down,
she’s indecisive ,
her ex called her
things were
going great,
bringing up the past
like it was yesterday
or a month ago,
they kept to each other
but the tension screamed
and snapped progression,
we weren’t an accident
and this relationship flipped
faster than the gravel gave out
last October,
things moved fast
like last October,
we laid in inhaling
bedsheets,
I never realized
how much perfume
she put on until she left
me and the duvet finally
exhaled,
every time we ******
seemed like
we’ve been doing
it for much longer,
comfortability came with
the amount of time
the cigarettes couldn’t
stop talking and talking
until 8am,
my speech held
tandems with
trust the moment we
saw eye to eye,
retrospected reflections
given with every new kiss
dripped away from her lips
striking a match with new feelings
burning the useless old,
perpetuated post-mortem
glances to discussions of
mind depth lead to understanding,
giving swine wings
and through everything
we’ve gone through
in short time
she still has a
hard time figuring
to wear her hair
up or down.