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M Clement Jul 2019
The biggest compliment he could get was,
“I like that.”
“That’s creative,” coming in a close second.

Alienated
Spaceship flying *******
That last word’s disingenuous.
I’ve only ****** a ******.
She’s only ****** me.
I guess we got that going for us.

He stares at a pad and paper,
Or maybe the computer equivalent.
Who trusts their own hand to be honest?
Who entrusts tomes to their own handwriting?
I mean, can you read that ****?
I guess if you were slow and methodical,
But stream-of-consciousness doesn’t allow that,
Even if the tag is a little off.

I’ve got money to keep living,
Even if most of it is credit.
What’s my side hustle?
Using my debit.

Let it alone, is what I called the last ****
God, if I could turn these to hits.
Some bangers, some ear-worms.

I just want someone to read this,
And be like, “****, I feel heard.”
Jul 2019 · 66
Let it alone
M Clement Jul 2019
I think I’m ****** up,
An island in an ocean,
An ocean full of people;
Welcome, you’re alone.

Let’s talk in Scrabble
Bananagrams from the mouth
******* off the dome.

Computer programs, give me courage
If x=no
And y=yes
I used to be able to program my feelings
Now I got pills for that.
If I get in some sort of feeling, I'll write. Today's the day, I guess.
Nov 2018 · 119
All the asides aside
M Clement Nov 2018
I feel like ****
I've hit a ditch
Flipped my side
****** my ride
I'm in the pit
I ate a 'wich
I saw the tide
The Dude Abides

**** with your human
I'm unimportant
Lack of dereliction
Leaves me inordinate
I'm a work of fiction
Take me and my dic(k)tion
I am losing friction:
I'm falling out my mind.
M Clement Dec 2017
I am a line
stick me in or snort me, Courtney

Battle rap fake fools
in mind games and rhyme schemes
that really exist in your vehicle

I'll be blood work,
you play needle

Listened to Migos instead of the Beatles.
The simplistic tale of a man wanting to write a thing.
Oct 2017 · 437
Breakfast
M Clement Oct 2017
I paced back and forth
Kitchen to living
Room
Bowl in hand, I seat myself.
Discomfort.
Discomfort leads to frustration,
Frustration gives way to irritation
Irritation is stopped by standing again.
“It’s just breakfast,” I say to myself.
I can eat anyway I want, **** it.

But as I try to plop on the leather couch once again,
Some of the ever-precious cereal milk flows forth
From the lip of the bowl
To my pajama’d pants.

I’m going to stand and eat.
Thanks, breakfast.
Twitter prompt.
Aug 2017 · 320
Unspoken internals.
M Clement Aug 2017
Why even consider this a poem?
Unwrite it.
Take it back,
but it's too late.

Ink scribbled on rustic pages,
or pages made to look rustic.
Let's face it: you bought this notebook at a bookstore.
It's got to look special for all your elaborate gifts to the world.

You're that special snowflake, yeah?
Your writing against the world of oppressive darkness
surrounding your poor brain, boy.

Write your way out.
****** Toons the wall, and make sure your escape.
M Clement Jul 2017
Hey girl, I’m a mess.
You’re a “private ****” with a holster
I guess.
I’m a private **** undercover;
I jest.
All I want is to **** and be heard.
I’m sure I can go without the latter;
Just **** me like I matter.

It’d be easier if you’d have your life figured out.
That line goes for us both, I suppose.

I keep thinking it’s easier to drive her away,
I’m not enough.
So I’m looking through a window, at a woman I don’t really love.
Wondering if she’s the secret key,
Like there is one.

I suppose that’s why **** is so easy, right?
You come with me.
It doesn’t matter what I have in my pocket,
What the bad things I did today were,
Who the **** I am.

I’m just a private ****.
Tonight's listening: "first take"- Travis Scott
Apr 2017 · 375
Inane conundrums
M Clement Apr 2017
I give, I give, and I taketh away.
I’m left with nothing at the end of the day.

I’m left speechless, you’ll give speeches
But I’ll be far away.
The frustration lies within.
I hear your voice in my head
Screaming,
“******* live better.”
I’d be better off Red.
At least I’d live happy, margins well below.
But you wouldn’t let me,
You’d have nothing to show.

Leave your fears at the door,
Young child.
The winter wind sweeps close.
If you are not careful,
The frostbite will get your nose.

I’m empty; I’m flawless
I need more than this.
I can’t be me, and what you want at the same time.
I guess ignorance is bliss.
Just been writing here and there. I was rather resonating here, and figured I'd post.
Thanks.
Jan 2017 · 315
"Mother's Across Campus"
M Clement Jan 2017
"Just remember the last password,"
Passing out over dog turds
As they flush out their ***** soaked linens.

A second away, a crusader she stays,
letting men and women, alike, hit rock bottom.
Her hair properly coiffed,
Her apron in a knot,
tied neatly, behind her back.
She waters the garden,
begs for no pardons
and awaits the hose to lose its slack.
I just had this random thought of a traditional "mom" in American culture, not give a **** about kids ******* themselves up.
Jan 2017 · 314
Tit-for-tat, and all that.
M Clement Jan 2017
Hollow bodies all toil in compassion for something they truly want,
but we speak as if the truth were individual, subjective; there's no line in the sand into what's bad unless everyone agrees.

Who's really wrong? What's really wrong?

Can we ever hope to draw a lion?
I ****** up a serious tone with a joke.
The last line really says it all.
M Clement Jan 2017
"I ****** THE FIDDLY-WIDGET!"

You scream down a naked hallway.
They wear no clothes, you know.
Unabashed knaves.
Nonsensical ******* is always so fun.
M Clement Jan 2017
It's two in the morning,
And nothing glimmers with any sort of light.

The ceiling lamp is buzzing its way into oblivion, and my computer screen won't stop screaming my face off as words continue to recreate themselves all over this paperwork I like to call poetry.

There are clothes on the floor.
A lump that literally states "I'm a bachelor with no tastes";
All my clean clothes are unfolded.

I take time for ******* pageantry, as if video games, film, and other likewise media are my lasting friends.

"Look at me,
I know so much!"
He kindly curtseys to the judge
as he skips away so gayly.

An "Always Sunny" Marathon, at my place maybe?
He says like a Jewish Decapodian, scarfing down some bay leaf.
Just kidding, I'm way too poor for that.

I'm supposed to have my **** together;
I'm supposed to buy a house!
I scream, I rant, I rave, I shout!
Until another stupid ******* ***** me a good one,
Right on the mouth.

I mumble for weeks; I continue on.
Let us all sing, again, the soldier's song:

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'

Oh God, what have you done?
Brought politics into a world that had none?
Forever tainted this bill of mine,
For it's possible that it 'twas not designed
for a working world,
for a human social structure,
for a being who's supposed to be good.

We get a mockery each time,
Spit dereliction, each line.
*fists up in the air* WHOOO POLITICS, GO SOAPBOX
M Clement Jan 2017
It's been a long time since I ****** with a pen.
Told my lady tonight something I just can't forget:
If you really love something, at least do it on the side.

So welcome me back, O wordsmith, if you would delight.

If not, fade me to alignment of some other greater ill,
fate me worse none, than one thought, but I will still keep a bill
of every broken, ****** up, and beautiful thing that I've been given,
and I'll still want to turn that **** into a living.
I haven't written in so long, but it's not something I forgot my love for. I've always wanted to become a better poet, and one of my dreams is to get my work published. Who knows if it'll ever happen, but I'd like to keep writing in the meantime if you'll have me.
Oct 2016 · 201
Lineage
M Clement Oct 2016
Life seems darker as of late,
Is it the change of seasons,
Or have the rose-colored glasses fallen off my face?
I’m still not sure how many days I have left;
I’ve wanted to unhinge my jaw with a revolver for the past week and a half.
I ain’t no ghetto’s son,
I am a privileged white male,
Out the ***.
It’s ******, but it’s true.
I mean, sure, I grew up on a street with no lights on outside,
And I got a knife pulled on me in front of my house, but what’s that say about me or you?
I am a counter-cultural mess and a half.
That’s what it seems like, from my end of the teeter-totter.
I thought I was my father last night, but that bullet’s dodged… I ain’t have no daughters.
I feel like my prescriptions read “desperation”, and the puffs that I blow read “sloth”.
But I’m just doing what I can, being cut from the same cloth.
M Clement May 2016
I write to pretend my words matter:
to feel significant in the rushings sounds
of our cacophonous symphony of car
horns and relative non-silence.
M Clement May 2016
He sat listless
As tv static called in distance

Move your hands
Not your legs
Exercise nothing
Your brain should be empty

As inky black tendrils consume all that he is,
was, hopes to ever be,
he attempts not
to provide a decent fight,
or a fight at all.

He remains listless
Feeling the pain of every single movement
In the lingering darkness of his surroundings
M Clement Apr 2016
I've always desired to write like the Psalmists,
to give praise to the God who so loves me.

I seem to do better in light-hearted matters
and vulgarity.

But if I could write appropriately,
as if my words were even close to
the fullness of how much I mean them,
I'd say that I'd be nowhere without my true
Father.
The one who resides afar, but so near.
The omnipresent Triune God who loves me
more than I can stand to love myself.

(Notice how easily I make this about me, something I loathe.)

But my God, O God.
Your beauty is deeper than the ocean,
Your majesty stretches across the atmosphere;
nay, it stretches across the cosmos.
But a speck I am in Your glory
yet You love me all the same.
Yet You love me all the same.

The idea of You taking thought to create me,
with purpose no less,
blows my mind;
truthfully, my only hope
is to spread that love that you giveth me.

To reflect you.
To be a light unto others in Your name,
and yours alone.

Though my life feel like a desert,
You are an oasis.
Please fill my thirst.
I don't normally dive into my Catholic Identity here, but it is so much a part of me, that I really wanted to try to put that in a poem. Who else should I write for?
Apr 2016 · 364
House-Heart
M Clement Apr 2016
A home is called a house
Unless it's found within a heart
House-heart
Heart-house?

What's the equivalent to arson
to a heart, son?
Said pops to the squatty flour-child.

Slow insanity is better than speeding.
No tickets that way, he says to himself.
What's to quote, Shakespeare or shaken
spears?
Romans put their enemies head on pikes.
Mike's Hard Lemonade is like the adult Kool-Aid.

We take everything.
We take nothing
but
everything.

Writing is getting sloppyer
as ded sed won day
**** te frunch an' all dey sed.

Sanity slips in the house
The heart-house
The house-heart
Sanity slips
I love writing pseudo-nonsensically, if that weren't apparent by now. It all means something. This is inspired by a few tracks from A Lot Like Birds' album: No Place.
Thanks for reading, and God Bless.
Apr 2016 · 248
Period professionals
M Clement Apr 2016
I use periods as often as a pregnant woman
This is only true in prose
I guess, I want you to fit in these words
where you fit best

I write for me, but on a grander scale, for you
Yes, you, the one staring at these words
letting them soak into the creases of your cranial-matter
I've gotten past the membrane now

Now you're thinking
What the hell is he sinking
into this mind of mine
The answer is gibberish
always has been
almost always will be

I travel down hallways to capitalize properly
I burn the gardens of sincerity by striking the match of clarity
I even pricked my finger on a safety pin, once

I call this prose,
but who really knows
and who can clarify?
These are words
jumbled together
to form a mind-worm
I hope you're infected
Apr 2016 · 867
Which area on the doll?
M Clement Apr 2016
Illiterate alliterations
Of Farcical fascinations.

I fancy myself a wordplayer
if not a word-sayer
Though the paper gets far more love than the air

***** what's nearest the toaster oven.
Vile Bile, Jim, by at least 3 miles.

I took the tapeworm from yesterday's sandwich
Gave it to the secretary, who continues to *****
She's a labrador
I'm a matador

You'd be surprised how much bulls ****.
I haven't had the capacity nor the desire to write in so long. It's good to be back, though I don't know for how long.
M Clement Jan 2016
Emotional vulnerability is *******
He repeats in a whisper
A whisper that's more a thought than a verbal acknowledgment.

He was done.
He was spent.
He hadn't come in months.
And he didn't want to.

So what was there to do?
Express emotional vulnerability to an extent that left him more raw
than fresh hide.

Forget it.
"I suppose that's easier,"
he mused.

So he moved forward,
and shows no signs of stopping.
Dec 2015 · 378
As if I were made of wood.
M Clement Dec 2015
I haven't written in a long time.
The slave-driving mind of mine forces these chained hands
into spilling ink to canvas.

The woods are crawling with impossibilities,
as the nowhere home calls me evermore.

I walk a distance to find myself back at the entrance of it all.
The alpha, the beginning.

Is this growth? Is this monumental?
--
We give credence to paper.
It's no longer a tool for survival, but a god in our pockets.
A Christmas ******* miracle.
There are times where I'd like to cry,
But as a friend said, "my tear ducts were seared closed long ago."
--
The Forest crawls with impossibilities.
The trees beckon,
and I slowly begin again.
M Clement Oct 2015
There's traces of you all around this room.
Like long-forgotten relics
of a reality I had forgotten existed.

So much has changed,
but I don't know if you can say the same.

How can I?
I'm still lost, flustered,
out of breath, and tired,
but somehow, I feel on the right track.

I'm pretty sure you felt the opposite.

I stopped drinking, but nights like these
make me want to pick it back up.
Where'd I put it down?

I guess this is a sorry.
This is a "I'll see you soon" apology.
This is a "I don't regret much" statement,
but I'm sorry all the same.
Sep 2015 · 298
This is a poem.
M Clement Sep 2015
I left my brain to the left of the stove.
I think it's on fire.
M Clement Sep 2015
Run the ******' Jewels, friend.

I try to write to the beat,
but **** it, I'll just strip instead.

I work in sales; I work in industry.
****, the things I say are all lies,
so what's the point of even writing them?

Because I can't write good truth for the life of me.
I can speak it though.

Catch me in court, cuz I'm trying to be hard.
It's all *******. It's just a parking ticket.

We're obsessed with hard *******, and chill *** ******.
#blacklivematters
It's true, and we're all in danger.

Who else grew up in the suburbs but is trying to go hard as they can?
Masculinity means cars, cash, *******, and ***.
If you ain't getting *****, you just a *****.

Thanks Drake, for teaching us what's important.
Kendrick speaks to 'Pac, I wonder if he used ouija board.
It's the weird line between demonic and technology.

I'm just writing off the dome,
I wonder how different this would be if I were sitting at the seafoam.

Let's praise our idols; not praise our God.
Let's ****, ****, lick, blow.
We all know there is no next show...

So what the **** are you living for?
Surprise! I'm ******* Catholic!

This is more just a speaking of ironies in life as a whole, I guess. Hit me up if you have questions.
M Clement Sep 2015
A bitter ****-fest of lollapalooza.
Burn(ing) me, man. but don't taze me, bro.

If I got high on legalized substances, am I still escaping?
Metaphoric endorphin rushing as patio furniture sits silently,
slowly choking as I fill it with my own ***.

I haven't written in so long, because I lack some passion.
I haven't written verbal joust in the form of bitter tongue because I felt it lacked restraint.

I ****** with a straight jacket; it felt great.
Perpetual virginity, a fool's errand running.
I have my V-card still; kind of... it's stunning.

I left a can of gasoline at an alien's house.
I came back and fire had engulfed what was left of my sorrows.

"I thirst," said He, the savior of the world.
Let's all ignore the singing signs of everything, boys... girls...

I have not a word to say in recompense for exploitation of your idiotic murmurings.
Well done, my good and faithful burdenings.

I can't speak to what hasn't yet been said,
but I can sure as hell guestimate, that we'd probably all be dead.

This **** ain't free.
Thank you, Kendrick Lamar, for reminding me.

This is me unfettered.
This is me unchained.
Give me a pen and some paper:
this **** will get strange.

I am Fred Astaire with a **** so fine, you'd think it's aged wine the way it twirls and floats.

Breaking up is ******, now put this poem down your throat.
I just went with whatever came to my mind with each line. I hope it was enjoyable.
Sep 2015 · 249
Thirst.
M Clement Sep 2015
He feels alone in a room full of people.
He supposes, "I guess that hasn't changed,"
and continues on about his day.

Hearing the words, "I thirst," in his frustrations and loneliness,
he looks back and watches the cross leave marks
from where he had come from,
and he began to wonder what they'd look like
the further he traveled.
Aug 2015 · 419
Who do you live for?
M Clement Aug 2015
The shells and mortar plink and blast around him.
Razor wire stretches as far as the eye can see.
Pitfalls, muddied dirt, and God only knows what else
is all within the path that is entrenched before him.

He took up his rifle a long time ago;
pledging to do what he had to,
pledging to defend what he ought.

He took many laborious steps alone.
He crawled beneath the wires.
He dodged the mortar shots,
though the debris was a much harder hazard to avoid.
He even fell into some pitfalls,
but managed to pull himself out of that muddied dirt.

He felt alone on the battlefield.
And from where he was positioned,
bullets rained down upon him.
He sought safety behind a wall of the very same
muddied dirt that had been his hazard.

And just when he felt he could go no further,
a hand reached in front of him, offering to pull him to
a safer place.
It was a hand that all at once seemed familiar and foreign,
known and unknown.

And the man to whom the hand belonged simply smiled at the soldier,
and said, "We're moving on."
So, I'm trying to be a little more thoughtful when it comes to writing, and this is the first time I've written in a while.

The inspiration comes from the idea of life being a battlefield, but God being with you there through it all especially when you feel hopeless.

I'm open to edits... I'd like to make this better. Just let me know, I suppose.
Aug 2015 · 303
Afterthought
M Clement Aug 2015
Putting fingers to keys
is as laborious as pushing a nail through my flesh.

Slow, painful, and weighted.

If there were something to say, it's been said before.
If there was something to do, it's been done before.

I am a mouth of sand overflow.
My hands do nothing but bring shame upon my family name,
and my feet sludge through confusion and ambiguity.
Jul 2015 · 443
Across the Seven Seas
M Clement Jul 2015
"If I never write you," she said,
"you'll know I've found what I needed."
And thus they parted ways...
And he still awaits a letter.
M Clement Jun 2015
It's funny,
He thought to himself.
As the stubble on his chin grew
ever more coarse.
He had shaved it, of course,
to gain some sort of traction in his life,
to contain some sort of control.

Does he really have it?
Ultimately, he'd probably answer no,
but that has never stopped him anyway.

He still has her picture up in his room.
It's funny, because he realizes that he just realized this.
Yet he's so ready to let go.

He turned to whatever he could to wash away the her
he had created in his mind,
whatever felt good.
Be it ****, *******, alcohol, whatever...
It never made him feel "better".
He called it his "tantrum".
That made it fit to the letter.

And then it was over.
As if scales had fallen from his eyes,
and he saw everything for what it was,
and for who she was.

And thank the Good Lord,
he felt at peace again.
Breakups is hard, especially when you have a massive jumble of emotions that you don't know what to do with, and even if you did the whole "splitting up portion" yourself, if you love someone, that's hard.
I guess what I came to realize is that I loved my perception of someone, not the someone I was with... or I didn't love her in the way I thought I did. So there's that.
May 2015 · 898
Title (optional)
M Clement May 2015
Writing,
Reflecting the inmost being, or simply what's wallowing at the top of the subconscious.
Consciousness, divinity, split pea soup shredding through me.
Mental perceptivity and **** beads: better out than in, I always say.
Check yourself before you Shrek yourself.
Green Onions tell me in grocery stores, "It's never Ogre."

I once thought the world to be flat. Maybe you thought that, perhaps you didn't.
Fluid change of though patterns strike at the heal of the what wasn't.
Wasps leave me be. I drained the pool where I used to be.
He told me the other day; he told me nothing.

Hugh Jackman's nasally in the Les Miserables film.  That doesn't rhyme with anything, it's just true.
Weeeeee
M Clement May 2015
Hello, dear friends and family,
I write you on behalf of your own dis-functionality. Break away the molds of a less mortal man. Ne'er again will I be what I am. I am anachronistic I'm a flower. I expect sunshine I expect showers. I am lesser than an 8th grade child. Come with me Mr. Rogers, stay awhile.
Ulcers, explosions, colonoscopy, I'd like "things that come from the back side of me" for 500, Alex.
Reflex my mental perceptions and premarital sexuality. I'm Catholic, we're catholic; I think you're understanding me.
I used to write for you, but now I write for me. Pac Man ate my ***** yesterday, and a ghost I shall be.
Fan me the cool feels, fan me the sweet deals; I'd like to make money sometimes, but that's just the worldly me.
Let's be humerus, I'm flexing my skeletal muscles. Bone me twice, I'm flexible: tussle.
An antiperception of lesser mortal men, let us not take umbrage to the second tense of Portman's skin.
I see you, girl; I see you girl. I'm not interested, but that body speaks worlds.
Is that weird? I guess you can admire beauty without falling into lust. I suppose that's normal, save when staring at bust.
Let me anchor you; let me father. I'm not writing for my son, nor my daughter.
There's some serious necessities, there's some serious faults. I love you, and that's the honest truth, but what happens if we're lost? Five more words to go.
Apr 2015 · 390
Hors [dee ores] d'ourves
M Clement Apr 2015
I wish there was a word for my
mixed-up,
leftover insides.

I am my own Temple of Doom.
I will or I won't
Bring you to swoon.
Get me the spoon.
I am Captain: Ben and Jerry's
Vessel be my scurvy.
Mastering epitome, feeling marscapone:
I am the color of your liver.

If I put on a hoodie, I feel more "me", but where was I left?
Where am I grazing?
Surely it's on greener pastures?

Am I dead?
Who are you?
Is this what we're all searching for?
Separation?

I ran the decathalon; choke down my python.
There's a fire in your mouth.
Let me put it out.
Apr 2015 · 521
After much consideration
M Clement Apr 2015
I am a Fuster Cluck
I am mother-duck

Color my medically mental psychiatriosis
Red-blue-purple

Snowball my eyeballs into your throat-hole
"I never asked for this," said Adam Jensen's blow-hole.

I feel best self medicated on that fire-water's chest
Feel my insides warm as my outsides loosen
I may explodinate my thought bubble-quotient

I'm sick of being in my head
Worrying about you, worrying about life
Worrying

Lay it at the foot of the cross
I know which one
So why am I sitting here holding all my problems in my arms
Cradling them like a small child?
I just wanted to write.
Apr 2015 · 470
listless
M Clement Apr 2015
A discontented silence raised itself among the fellows

Which of us?

Then it becomes a ******* race.

I write to seek and to find

Please, someone define the languish of hypocrisy
I can do me all by myself

Scattered brain splattering
Jackson *******'s word-painting
Find Pascal's triangle inside me
I hope it's in the mouth.

Arbitrary. Periods.

Here I am, delirious
M Clement Apr 2015
Pig body with a man's face
eradicating the human race

Possibly the opposite
balance melons, call 'em ****

The anger uprising
OBEY surprising

Read what it says on the back of my Oakleys
Made in China

Considered derailment

Cannot understand the Satan in a man to commit the heinous crime of ****
To another human being, for goodness sake!

Prayer, prayer,
with unanswered need.

Read these words, take some heed
None of us gain anything from the sin of greed.
Apr 2015 · 371
A name does not suffice
M Clement Apr 2015
Spinning, spinning:
Tread lightly, so softly

She pitter patters 'cross The floor

Mirrors show the grace
and softened steps
and light reflect the tenacity at which she pursues them both

Pat
pat
pat
Pit
pit
pit

Plie
Apr 2015 · 318
Uhm
M Clement Apr 2015
Uhm
A pawn
It sits atop a white square
its blackened wood contrasting

The lawn
the dirt and rooted mixture
Sitting atop, or simply 'is' Earth

The people
all alike and different
casting shadows, shapes, and 'morrows

This poem
a collection of words and phrase
fitting neither in reality nor falsehood.
Apr 2015 · 356
Ad hoc
M Clement Apr 2015
With ode to the blue skies
and fan-fares of yesteryears

To the bitter cold realities of
Ten-plus pills per morning

I wept on the clouds of
dream-like depressions

And you, and you, and you,
You're gonna love me.
First in a while, especially on this site. I have been writing off and on for quite some time... I suppose the tradition continues.
Feb 2015 · 389
a lifetime of mutters
M Clement Feb 2015
I have written since
I have written hence
and on my emotions,
Someone pressed mute.

I give a hoot
owls, towels
Showering
owl-ring

Let's make *** to Sam Smith
Oct 2014 · 424
Oceanic
M Clement Oct 2014
We are ocean

We are unfurled fury
We are peaceful compassion
We are unknown

As we push against the sands of time
Irreconcilable
We beat, we beat, we lapse

Children await us
Searching the horizons for our source of strength

And the sun sets once more
relinquishing it's last bit of light
giving a reflection of what can be.
M Clement Oct 2014
Writing is soul less as Icarus finally
touches the sun

Burning, burning Willow trees
my mind is yet undone

The smoke illuminates nothing but
the fragile frame

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote for this
and yet I still feel the same
Sep 2014 · 933
Away Message
M Clement Sep 2014
tweet my injustice
Let's all us combustus
and fritter away french fries
from the local till us nuts

Freakin' Friday
Meek and Nigh may
take away the saltines from the
mouths of youths
and put a large bass in my
kissing booth

I am Xavier
I am Charles
I once supposited a pack of
Marlboro's
Shamus mc ****, Batman
the 'copter's on down furrows
I wrote this on the 29th, I believe. I've actually been writing more, but I haven't been posting... sorry about that.
M Clement Aug 2014
And if e'er I flew
Touching clouds with my toes
And fingertips
The fall would be unbearable
M Clement Jul 2014
If I drink and I write
Will I be more coherent
Or will my thoughts
Be evermore etched into
Eternity

There's a smell on my breath
That doesn't translate to text
But I can walk on water for an illusion

Color this arrested development
Jul 2014 · 399
{fancy side notes}
M Clement Jul 2014
I really hope there's sincerity in my words
For how many times I've been misled
Or misfed
Or purposefully choosing the wrong way

I realize it's humanity
We are perpetually weighed down by sin
But it was crucified, right?
Am I safe?

Faith without works is lost
I can't claim birthright without acting upon it
Right?

If I alienate myself from my Father,
will I be put in the will?

I'm scared.
I'm strong.
I'm proud.
I'm selfish.
And I'm trying
Sincerely
Jul 2014 · 600
At it again. (10 Words)
M Clement Jul 2014
There's nothing more humbling
Than a good ***** up, right?
Jul 2014 · 310
Inspiration//breakdown
M Clement Jul 2014
I read another's poem
And lost the one I was to write.
Jul 2014 · 308
Old town//New folks
M Clement Jul 2014
Optional antiquity
I'm having to recreate my own life

Moving back to a city I once knew
Only to realize it no longer knows me

Let's call this a practice run
You're out of practice, ***

And there's nothing more to say at the moment
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