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Tyler Matthew Sep 2017
If you can help it,
don't fall in love with
a girl who always
gets what she wants.
She won't get
everything she wants
out of you and it'll
drive you both mad.
You're older now, soldier.
Your wars aren't the same.

Dust and the blinds they collect,
days that feel red, almost enviable
in their passion.

Shaky hands again, dry mouth
again, sirens singing low in
the black water day after day.

Death should mean something.
Encore for the epitaph!

It isn't real, but it is. It's replaying
in your head. It isn't real, but

it happened.
Tyler Matthew Sep 2017
She's afraid that the romance is dead.
Wonders why there are no flowers in the vases, no cute notes on the headboard.
When she gets home from work and
isn't greeted at the door with boxed chocolates neatly rowed, she thinks I don't love her.
No, but I say let the romance be dead.
I'd rather have the freedom to ****
in bed, or to laugh at her farts just the same,
or gather what I need to know about her from just the expression on her face.
She regrets having laughed at that first ****, but that's how she stole my heart.
She let me be me and didn't let romantic duty get in the way.
Anyway, I still am going to get her flowers.
Tyler Matthew Sep 2017
Cross your heart and hope to die.
Tell me you will tell no lies.
Tell me, do you recognize
the honesty within these eyes?
Tyler Matthew Sep 2017
I am the dog, collared and chained,
deemed useless and left alone.
I am the nail in the wall left unhammered, jutting to snag at your sleeve.
I am the hole in your line through which all of your energy will be filtered or lost.
I am heavy with meaning and weightless with meaning and grounded in someone else's reality.
I am that reality, while my own remains silent and hidden and threatening.
I am a threat to some, no one to someone, and everything to one.
I am the card in play, always, even
when you leave the table and
I will be there when you get back.
Also, I am the deck and few cards are missing.
I am the mirror in which you might one day see yourself and startle your eyes into misrecognition.
I am the cup that overfloweth,
and the child guilty for wanting.
I am the season which seems like it will never let up.
I am the sun casting rays of golden relief on the faces of many lonely strangers.
I am the forgotten sun, just as well.
I am the ruin of those who came here before me and the stain they left on the white fabric of time.
I am the fabric, loose and changing
in the winds of perpetuity.
I am a glass sphere in the midst of a landscape, puzzling and divine and uncanny alike.
I am a door left unopened.
I am a line with no end and a point with no beginning and I will let it be known that I am here seeking all.
Tyler Matthew Aug 2017
I am not content.
The president is a charade.
Hate parade's through the towns.
I fidget where I sit
as the bit of love that's left
is traded for dollars or
fame, and who's to blame?
Russia? Yeah Russia,
or those spics kicking dust
up at the border.
Take your pick.
I am not content
as I see hundreds of people
raising hell over hell.
The division line getting bolder.
Division bell ringing louder.
Myself getting older and still
yet unpublished.
And I am not content,
even with smoke in my lungs,
head still hung in silent surrender,
I have something to say!
To hell with it.
A world bent on nonsense
won't listen to a poet.
When I say "spics," it is out of poetic irony/sarcasm. Please do not be offended. Not racist.
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