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Michael Mar 2018
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I am more than the imperfections of my flesh.
More than an unorganized stack of papers riddled with typos.
More than a DVR for tragedy.
More than a play button for anxiety.

I am more the sum of all my parts.
More than the equations of my mind.
More than clicks on a keyboard.
More than words on a screen.

I am less than you.
Less than the seconds that you waste.
Less than the words that you are pantomiming.
Less than the poems that you've read.

But we are equals behind our eyes.
Michael Jun 2018
It's been so long since we've been here.
You've been clean for months.
You faught against your fear,
But now you've had too much.

A syringe filled with syllables.
A sharp tongue is your needle.
Tie your mind off steady.
Inject your prose with hate.

Don't let this control you.
Don't let this consume.
All of this is temporary,
I trust you'll seen this soon.
Michael Mar 2018
Brothers and sisters of ink and blood.
Storytellers, poets, connoisseurs of love.
The downhearted, broken. Betrothed and betrayed.
Lend me your ear, your heart, and your page.

My quill has run dry, but yours still runs free.
My imagination is dim, though you still believe.
I said hello, poetry. Goodbye tainted thoughts.
But it takes more than words to break such locks.

So, write me a sonnet, haiku, or a ballad.
A lymeric, lyric, even elegies are valid.
Deliver your song of keyboard clicks,
Tell of your lover, your pain, politics.

Grant me this wish,
Fulfill this desire.
I am freezing cold,
and your words are on fire.
Leave a verse in the comments!
Michael Mar 2018
These catacombs of rumination,
these webs of paranoia.
Traverse this lair of irrationality,
where the light is without glow.

I've lent a hand to catastrophe.
I am not without fault.
Though, surely I do not deserve
a tomb buried in thought.
Michael Mar 2018
Dear, Elsie.
You left me with a curse.
I understand you had to leave,
we had no time to converse.

I've tried so hard
to doubtlessly believe
That there's a heaven above me
And a hell at my feet.

I've inhaled the smoke,
I've drank the fire.
I've done everything I can
to take me higher.

Mother, I'm not sure
That I'm complete.
I'm convinced that you can see.
With buried eyes, the ghosts in me.
Imperfect, but real.
Michael May 2019
Rumination is my business.
Paranoia is my empire.

Built upon information.
An abundance of or lacking.

Just enough proof.
To know I that need more proof.
Michael Mar 2018
I am a weaver of words. Make no mistake I said words, not wisdom.
I am a coniessuer of simulies, and synonyms.
My shelves are lined with glass beakers and tubes containing syllables, but I am no alchemist.

Make no mistake, though, I am a poet.
I will reach for the sharpest edges of your mind, and whether I come home with lifelong scars or your lifelong adoration - I don't mind.

No, I don't behave like someone with something to say, I don't pry. I just sit and sift my words through mesh until only the most complex remain.
Because cliche is a killer, it won't impress.

How many others are out there right now with calices between their thumbs and index fingers speaking the same words I am?

If you feel like you have already heard this before, it's because you haven't. At the end of a stanza or the conclusion of a verse all of the colors start to fade. These pictures I have painted in your thoughts are temporary. Make no mistake, though, the feelings are endless.
Michael Apr 2018
He's high again,
doped up on emotion.
Claiming he can make you safe.
To build a house of rotten wood.

He's here again,
in my home with cruel intention.
Screaming he can make you pretty.
To scar your skin with fingertips.

He's in my head again,
wrestling my peace to the ground.
Whispering in thieves cant.
To steal all the things that hold me up.
Michael Mar 2018
Hey, you. Stop.
I know what you're seeking.
You look for a verse,
or stanza worth reading.

Look no further, peer inside.
Let me tell you how many times I've lied.
No? What? That won't do?
Don't tell me you're still not satisfied.

Oh, well. If that's the case.
Here's a few memories I'd gladly erase.
What's that you say? You've heard it before?
Well, what do you want? I have nothing more!

Do you want a pill that's hard to swallow?
An explanation as to why I'm hollow?
Do you need me to tell you how to feel?
Or are you simply craving something real?

Will you remember me when you're done reading?
Or are these words seen as fleeting?
Would it be different if there were a crowd,
While I stood onstage speaking out loud?

To be honest, it doesn't matter.
It's not my goal to convince or flatter.
This is my place, as it always has been.
So, close your eyes and listen to my pen.
Michael Sep 2018
Complicated words, drawn out phrasings.
Lines that flow like water and perfect pacing.
Truth from the heart, no more, no less.
Converted into art, forged without rest.

Your tongue is a hammer, nailing bars into place.
Ornate articulations to fill out all the space.
Between every line is a moment of awe.
Study it well and remember it all.

Maybe some day you'll take center stage.
You skipped the last step, so now you read off the page.
They applaud you in dim light, you make your exit.
Raise your head high, now you're in orbit.
Michael Jan 2019
What lies beneath our laughter?
What is the shadow to our bliss?
White lies are painted black, to blend into the dark.

What signs do I look out for?
If any at all.
That my paranoia has been tainted, with truth - and truth alone.

What do I recall?
An amalgamation of insecurity.
Fog on glass, cuts on my name.
Praise him, the bait that stung the soul.
Michael Apr 2019
A silk laden hand, shattered glass stained gold and autumn irises. Lunar surface, soft glow pale. Flesh made of ice, embers on your fingertips.

Cast iron tongue, lays foundations of truth. Floor is weak and leaning, droplets from small cracks. Nailing promises, rust and rust.

Still a heart in the home. Beats forevermore. Elements interceding, reclaiming with thorns. Home's heart a wall of vine, brush, and age.

An architect with no foresight. Tumbles down, wastes it all. An architect with no hindsight, put paper to pen and build it again.

Save the land, make your bed. Take it with you when you go.
Michael Mar 2018
Know me.
Know me by name, know my deed.
Know me by my prose, know me by my song.
Know me by these words, if you know me at all.
Know me by desire, my desire to be known.
Know that I don't seek fame, but only appreciation.
Michael Apr 2018
A plague that begins in breath and ends the same.
A sickness draining fortitude, a bead in my brain.
Swallow hard, many hours remain.
The tick of the clock tocks in vain.
Michael Apr 2018
My focus expands
With the sorrows of those around me
And in their despair I discover
It is not only my eyes that see
Michael May 2019
Much more than poetry.
Evermore than words.
Prose that lines our DNA.
As it meets and intersects.

Time is fiddler.
We were born to dance.
Under the gleam of God and all.
Let them fathom true romance.
Michael Mar 2018
i have a
               name
it is covered in
                            silk
like sheets we never
                                      use
as we brand our
                               bed

if you know my
                     name
please say it out
                loud
neither here are
           innocent
long after they're
      gone

so if you know my
  name
please say it out
              loud
tell me that you feel
                          me
that im not lost in the
                                 crowd
Michael Mar 2018
This girl was the wind running wild.
A breeze too terrified to admit it was lost.
She was phantom traveling through breaths.
Her words were gales, her screams were storms.

I'd swear she was an angel, even though I don't believe.
Her lips formed constellations, behind them pure black.
She's a cloudless nights sky, her body the moon and stars.
I promise you her eyes built worlds in mine, forged truth from thin air.

So, girl. If you find this; I remember you.
Michael Mar 2018
There is nothing like idle time
to atune the mind to the flesh.

There is nothing like silence
to hear your mortal breaths.

There is nothing like pondering
to feed the clock your thoughts.
Michael Apr 2018
Today I woke up to the sound of change.
A new life added to mine.
A heartbeat much like a war drum.
The rhythm is warm.
Its dance wild like fire.
It is the strongest reminder.
I have become a man.
My wife and I are expecting our first!
Michael Mar 2018
These words can't write sober.
Atleast that's what I told myself before I took the alcohol from my pen.
There were no more memoirs, mediocre or mundane.
There was plagiarism and perfectionism. Not a word had left the page.

And when I gave the pen his requested drink, sick did he become.
Copious prose spewed from his mouth; a ***** of ceaseless release.
And that's the story of how I found happiness, and realized it's not for me.
Michael Jan 2019
Thank you for tearing into my home.
A gentle spirit contaminated by morbid waste.
Thank you dissolving my spirit.
An obsession culled by sexuality.
Thank you for restless thoughts.
My turncoat lover.
Michael Mar 2018
If every lie you spoke left lacerations on your tongue, I am certain you would be silent.
Verse of the day I.
Michael Mar 2018
I apologize for feeling entitled to love, but bare in mind I paid triple the price.
Verse of the day II.
Michael Mar 2018
Nothing compliments a hasty decision like a swift change of address.
Verse of the day III
Michael Mar 2018
I enjoy the silence with you; our spirits converse while our minds are at rest.
Verse of the day IV
Michael Mar 2018
The winter is ending, but the cold is only now making its debut.
Michael Mar 2018
Hollow and bitter, scooped of your sweetness. Like fruit once ripe, now rotten and sour.
Verse of the day V
Michael Mar 2018
It is absolutely magical, love. The power you have to end my fears with merely a touch.
Michael Mar 2018
Don't forget who you are.
Don't forget where this power came from.
The feeling of sweeping.
The sound muffles, you feel it inward.
Like a ram diving into your gut.
Verse of the day VII
Michael Mar 2018
Maybe we don't get better.
Maybe we just learn what it means to be worse.
Verse of the day VIII
Michael Mar 2018
Words carry more weight when sewn in ink.
Michael Apr 2018
His hearth beckons.
A grief for the thresholds of solitude.
Yearning of bare feet on familiar pine.
Michael Apr 2018
Time is the fiddler
        and we were born to dance.
Michael May 2018
I am a punchline best told by a man with a stutter.
Michael May 2018
Imaginary people,
riding imaginary lines.
With infinite ends,
and finite time.

Involuntary measures
take place in their lungs.
Locusts burrow deep,
each breath is a hum.

A cadence of cicadas
behind every word.
This truth will save us:
No truth have you heard.
Michael Mar 2018
Home is where the heart is.

It lies in rest and wait.

If you tell me where it grows,

I'll take it to my grave.
Michael May 2019
When words are your outlet, where do you put them?

When words are what you believe in, how do you keep faith?

When words are your obsession, how do you keep a distance?

When words have betrayed you, how do you gain trust?

When words are all you have, what do you say back?

When words are your enemy, how do you come to peace?

When words are your sin, how do you atone?

When words are independant, how do you sieze control?

When words is your word of choice, how do you describe them?

Words are the blessing, and our greatest curse.

Words brought me here, with no map to guide me home.

— The End —