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Meka Boyle Jun 2013
The rotting corpse of a dilapidated morning glory
Waxes poetic in the dry summer air-
Its wilted petals droop heavy
With the subtle presence of something
Close to the end, but of a different hue.
A sweet yet sickly scent
Engulfs the neglected shrubbery,
That so gracefully collapses onto
A rusted, barbed wire fence,
Caving in beneath the heavy traces of morning dew
Atop intricate spider webs and fallen leaves.
Its bitter laments of despair
Sound out to the iridescent moon,
Cursing god in all his putrid grace.
Somewhere in the night, the sad wail echoes
Tumbling off canyon walls and over priced gas stations,
Until all that's left is a hollow boom
And the faint whisper of the Holy Ghost.
The pagan wind  slowly creeps by,
Pushing the flowers further down,
Until their stems take on the silhouette
Of the stooped backs of apologetic sinners,
Face down at the altar, accepting their worthy penance.
Dawn waits beyond the bend,
Her seductive fingers trace the fragile outline
Of the sleeping buds, blushing a faint pink
The color of a newborn child-
Beauty is only real within the tender moments
Leading up to it's intricate destruction.
Is this how it feels to exist?
Beating up against forgiveness
With bloodied palms, imprinted with the
Wilted outline of an indifferent morning glory-
Too alive to ever experience eternity,
For, in accepting life,
All else perishes.
Meka Boyle Dec 2011
The moon shines bright tonight
Above the ruined town
But moonlight can't hide the night
As darkness dances down
Meka Boyle Mar 2013
There is no honest answer.
Worlds fall from our wind-chapped lips
Like marbles, heavy on our tongues,
Hitting the ground with a muffled splat,
As we fumble on all fours trying to retrieve them.

There is no honest answer.
We push and shove our muddled consciences, unprotected, into  a dark alleyway
Full of lost chances and half hearted embraces.
Until there is nothing left but a small hollow pang in the bottom of our guts.

There is no honest answer.
Openly, we ask others what we are too afraid to ask ourselves, even in the private of our own minds.
Truth sits at the bottom of our flouncy ideals and broken promises,
Like the last drops of 2% milk,
That only come out of the carton once it's lying face down on the dumpster floor.
There is no honest answer.
                                                                                   MB.
Meka Boyle May 2013
There's a ceremony taking place
Within my sorid mind-
I scratch my nails against my face
For fear of making sound

With each step I take, my feet grow cold
As if frozen by the the night
And something more that is only told
By the ever present sky.

A bell will toll now, so they say.
I lay my ears to the floor
Yet all I hear is yesterday
Beat up against my mind.

The thudding of a distant fate
Is nothing more than the past
Too old to unlock the pearly gate
That encompasses my soul.

I heard a band come matching in
With merry dying tunes
For instead of joy that does begin
My heart did stop- and boom.
Meka Boyle Mar 2011
You vanished, into thin air
Leaving behind the perfume of despair
The scent still lingers, taunting my senses
Scarred by your impact, I leave up my defenses
You evaporated, your mirrors turned to smoke
It was not untill your absence that I finally awoke
Now I fear I shall never rest soundly
For when I close my eyes your presence surrounds me
As you take form as a thought in my head
I constantly retrace the words I wish I said
Meka Boyle Mar 2013
There are far more painful things than loneliness,
Like being surrounded by the deep,
Gnawing feeling that nobody quite understands.
It's hard to escape, this  ambiguous notion of longing
For something that isn't quite there.
It always shows up, rubbing up against the edge of causal conversations, late night musing and crowded coffee shops,
Bearing it's ragged head in the reflection of silver spoons and tap water.
It's easy to lose yourself in it all,
To forget the subtle way you shuffle your feet,
And even the final vowel of your name.
These things seem so miniscule in comparison
To the wide empty feeling you get
When surrounded by a crowd of all the wrong people.
Meka Boyle Apr 2013
This is what seperates us:
Words that twist and turn,
Tiny hurricanes swelling up
Raising inside my throat-
Coughing and wheezing,
I spew them out onto
The eagerly awaiting paper,
Waiting to see what sticks,
While you just sit there
Vacantly waiting for something-
Anything, to sweep you off
Your perfectly positioned feet.
Meka Boyle Jan 2011
society is on the brink
of destruction
it cant properly function
the dead ends come alive and meet at a junction
crash
just like that
we lash
out
but its too late
we've started to seal our fate
it began when we chose to hesitate
pause
consider the cause
weigh out the odds
tick tock
the scale is tipping
the seams of society are gradually ripping
yet we blindinly keep gripping
at what we've been told
its a slippery hold
a disfunctional mold
there is no room for thought
only what we've been taught
so lend me your ear
allow yourself to hear
the subtle warning in the back of your head
before its too late
your individuality dead
allow yourself to know
gather the courage to grow
you can break out
of these shackels
and chains
for life is not all in vain
resist the embedded urge to refrain
restrain
dont give in
find something within
end the past chapter
pick up a pen
and begin
to write your new book
of a language all your own
in your head
you've always known
acknowledge the fact
lifes all an act
tick tock
Meka Boyle Jan 2011
yes the ocean waves capture my gaze
but i would trade it all to look at you
my emotions tend to act as a maze
with your hand in mine you lead me through

a song in my head is equal to compare
for you are like a beautiful meoldy
i close my eyes and see your steady stare
no need to hide, you see right through me

yet here i am, lost and all alone
grasping at the past as it slowly fades away
wondering how you could not have known
without you life is but a rainy day

memories linger in the back of my head
i dare not daze off in fear they will submerge my senses
as i whisper the words i wish i said
i become vulnerable, defneseless

as the ocean waves submerge the mighty shore
the tides reveal what i've been looking for
Meka Boyle May 2011
Time is an illusion
Created to muffle confusion
Forming a false sense of control
Breaking life into fragments
The decomposition of the soul
Divided into segments
Everything is written between thin lines
Creating boundaries
By which our thoughts are bind
Due to the restrictions in our limitless minds
Still no one opposes
Cuz it's easier to handle
Claiming to know the sun
From the light shed by a candle
Illuminating a section
Of a staged resurrection
Between control
And what it means to be
Free
Separated by reality
Counting our blessings like 1 2 3
Keeping time with the rhythm
Of a scripted symphony
Our clocks are set
Counting down to oblivion
As we sleep awaiting the alarm
We surrender our kingdom
To the hands of time
Which harbor our minds
For what we are looking for
Doesn't lay within the lines
Of the social set up
Built upon time
Meka Boyle Feb 2013
Trust has lost its potency.
Words clumsily bump up against meaning,
Groping for reason the darkness of good intentions.
Clinging to the old wives tales of sincerity,
We hold a hollow pedastool above
Or weary, aching backs,
Hoping for someone to come and relieve us
Of our empty obligations.
Atlas has long left his perch,
The world slowly tumbled off his sinewy frame,
Shattering upon the cold hard face
Of reality.
Language has lost its clarity,
Muddled with distorted alliances
And miscommunication,
It's flails hopelessly, gasping for air
Before plummeting back down
Into the deep water of tragedy
And modern day relationships.
There's no room anywhere
For carefully constructed prose,
Or spontaneous laments of passion.
They've all been pushed out
To make room for something intangible.
Something not there enough to grasp it,
But real enough to trace its
Shadowy silouhette against
The cold hard walls that encompass
Innocence lost.
Meka Boyle Oct 2011
The stars don't shine as bright tonight
As memories cloud the air
Beneath the darkness of the night
They reflect your hazy stare
Meka Boyle May 2013
We're all slowly dying
The same
Elusive
Death.
Bang bang,
Gunshots sound out-
The anthem for an
Adolescent world
Full of ancient morals
And tear-soaked pillows
Meka Boyle Sep 2013
Orange capsules of condensed vitamin C
Tumble out onto my cracked,
Outstretched palm,
As I arch my spine towards the bathroom sink,
Scooping lukewarm water from the faucet
Into my half closed mouth-
The tiny pills clog my upturned throat:
Just two of the numerous solutions
To a world too numb
To contest.
I've never felt more alive,
Than when I'm drowning my body
With handfuls of tap water
And magic remedies bottled up and
Marketed to a world
Afraid of growing old.
Lining the wall of local drug stores,
One isle over from office supplies
And scented laundry detergent.
Multicolored, multipurpose-
Labels proclaim the fountain of youth
To anyone alive enough to fear it.
There's never enough of reality
To reach our depleted veins
Through the ever present forms
Of the world. Enough isn't
Enough, until we've convoluted it into a tiny
Plastic oval, and forced it down the throats
Of those well enough to swallow it.
Pharmaceutical companies proclaim their
Daily gospel in the linoleum streets
Of hospital waiting rooms
And local grocery stores,
As I cross my heart and count the
Hours until my next prescribed dose
Of complacency. Who knew happiness
Could have the bitter after taste of
Vitamin B or
The credibility of Zoloft.
The sandman has been replaced by Benadryl,
While creativity lies stagnant
Beneath adderall's indifferent thumb.
Obsession is a 26 letter alphabet,
Strung together by a bunch of deficiencies,
Incoherently droning on
To the burden of Man,
And flickering neon light
Of a drive-thru pharmacy.
Meka Boyle Mar 2011
What's the difference between morals and reality
Can one truly transcend the teachings of society
Is it possible to abide laws and still be able to see
For in a faithless world, one longs to believe

Afraid of one's conscience, society locks it inside
Kept away from the world, emotion need not collide
Morals set in an elusive language force one to abide
Yet in the midst of it all a dark intention resides

To speak out one must first surrender one's voice
To determine right or wrong one must first face a choice
Meka Boyle Feb 2011
Isolated from reality
Nothings what it seems
Roaming the world asleep
You take refuge in your dreams
You go with the flow
The current pulls you along
Drowning out your conscience
Its neither right nor wrong
Influenced by your surroundings
Unaware your slowly drowning
Gasping for air
Grasping at what's not there
Submerged in shallow water
Struggling to breathe
Finding your self at last
You realize you've been deceived
Instinct kicks in
You begin to swim
Risking it all
Listening to your wake up call
Meka Boyle Mar 2011
I'm tired of waiting around
There's only so much I can see with my eyes on the ground
There's only so much I can hear when I only know one sound
How can I follow my heart when it's nowhere to be found
The path I'm following is worn and faded
Funny to think it's the one frequently evaded
For the more safer option to stay where you are
Cuz walking in circles doesn't get you that far
Meka Boyle Apr 2011
Crying out for war
With no idea what you're fighting for
Little soldier who craves protection
You eagerly submit
In fear of rejection
Yet you refuse to admit
That the rhythm of your heart beat
Matches the drone
Of the war machine that can't fathom defeat
For the fear of the unknown
Is the only validation for retreat
So mask you vulnerability behind bullet proof vests
Shouting out less is more
When really more is less
When it comes to conformity
Cuz the more they teach you, the less you see
Blinded by the blatant truth
Explanation was lost in the youth
Society has caved in
To the pressure of greed
Which rooted itself within
The very epitome of need
So as you fight off emotion for the fear you can't define it
You're making a deal with the devil
And allowing society to sign it
Meka Boyle Sep 2014
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Meka Boyle May 2013
I killed myself the other day
And lay my head to rest
Upon a towering heap of hay
Because mother does know best.
Meka Boyle Mar 2011
Draw your sword and prepare for war
Oblivious of what your fighting for
The same deal every weekend
Only in your dreams does the chaos end
Finding companionship in drugs and alcohol
Temporary catching you amidst your fall
Living for the consolidation of the night
Yet so out of tune with life
So turning to **** you dull the knife
Weekend warrior
Your battle call is sounded
*** drugs and rock n roll
Your anything but grounded
Blurring your vision to forget your surrounded
Shallow ambitions
Mindless repetition
You go with the flow
Baited by the hook society uses while fishing
Spending all your change in a well for wishing
Surrounded by people who mirror your actions
Afraid to be alone
You feign a false satisfaction
You turn to numb the feeling
Call it fatal attraction
You fight for the weekend
To keep your mind off the deep end
Submerging in shallow pretext
You take refuge in pretend
So pickup the threads
That are constantly coming loose
And tie your hands behind your back
As you dig for the truth
Meka Boyle Jan 2012
We've murdered "Goodbye"
With our ball point pens and summer vacations.
Now all that's left of it is a shell,
A crater created by etiquette and empty promises.
We've stuffed it full of double intentions,
Filled it with unspoken "I love you"s, and "I'm sorry"s.
Our fear of leaving has left its muddy handprint
On the innocence of closure.
We've dragged it by it's syllables,
Drawing out each letter until the sound becomes muffled and obscure,
The very epitome of all it stands for.
Goodbye should be whispered in the final moments of one's presence,
Not proclaimed in shopping malls and late night diners.
The more we try to save it,
The further it sinks into causality.
The deeper that we engrave it,
The more goodbye parts with reality.
Meka Boyle Feb 2011
Hopelessly in love with the idea of love
Yet oblivious to what it really means
Constantly in search for answers
Yet nothing is what it seems
Meka Boyle Jul 2013
Daddy wasn't  there to **** the spiders,
So mommy gave them the gift of life-
Gently lifting them from the crevices of my tiny room,
And carrying them off to freedom
Atop a tattered kitchen broom,
Softly whispering sweet condolences in their secret language.
And that is how I learned what poetry is..
Meka Boyle Jun 2011
I do not miss you with the emotions,
reserved for feelings of despair,
which stem from absence.
For the tearing of my heart is much more than a feeling
that can be scrawled across a universal greeting card,
or a get well soon wish that is spoken out of routine.
I can not find sanction in empty words,
that come so close to defining
the effect your absence has upon me;
yet already stretched thin,
they are used up before reaching their full potential.
Should I speak of how I miss you,
the phrases uttered would not do you justice.
And if I could ever find a way to form this emotion into words,
I would leave it unspoken,
pure and unfiltered,
so not to dilute its meaning
with the muddled language by which I am chained.
So when asked if I miss you,
I can truthfully reply no.
Meka Boyle Aug 2012
Liquid silence flows between the cracks,
The awkward pauses and terse remarks ,
Of our cordial conversation.

My lips fumble as words  scratch at their soft corridor,
The taste of discomfort and failure is salty,
Yet reassuringly human- alive.

You didn't do anything wrong,
Your perfectly placed hesitations and irony
Fell stagnant in the bitter pool of my expectations.

You couldn't help the way things went,
Self sabatoge danced sweetly on my lips,
Fates sticky web couldn't hold back deliberation.

Being with you, in this room,
Is the epitome of wide open loniness-
The kind talked about in books and eulogies.

It's elusive presence envelops me
As sentences fumble out of my mouth like gravel:
Unclear and unintentional, too genuine to matter.

I'm not sure how much more I can handle,
How many perfectly sane stories I can to listen to
Without spilling off the brink of sanity.

It's not as bad as it seems out here,
There's something charming about being utterly alone,
Something unexplained and unattainable
In this wide open loneliness-
Meka Boyle Feb 2011
Going with the flow only gets you so far
Depending on fate doesn't make you who you are
Life's no easier after seeing a shooting star
So bottle your wishes and send them to sea
Watch them drift away from the shore of reality
Get rid of the notion that things are meant to be
Chain yourself to facts in order to become free
For to have faith alone is to be empty


As true as this might seem, I would still rather dream
Meka Boyle Sep 2014
I wrote a poem with your name,
And left a lot of blanks along the way:
Subtle mannerisms meant to render delicate and absolute imagery
Drifted right out of my vocabulary,
Face to face with the other component of a lover's metaphor:
The churning azure of the ocean's ebb and flow stared hungrily at the limitless white abyss beneath its tidy line in my unfinished sonnet.
I meant to write a poem about you:
Clear and beautiful: the materialization of how love is taught to feel in the classroom,
Where Helen hangs her heavy head and stares into her doomed reflection:
The vacant space that flowers grow, between cobbled steps and naked feet.
Yet, something else has happened:
The space where your imploring image should have inspired stars to fall into the fiery depths of hades hangs indifferently above reality.
All the superfluous images crafted to allow your luminous soul to shine,
Fell flat against the darkness: the aftermath that occurred before I had any time to craft the person behind the syllables of your being.
I meant to paint your image with language synonymous to love,
But instead I pressed my face against the hand-smeared, dust-ridden, cracked open only just an inch, window of a relationship that never really was much of a novel.
The still damp with paint, folded down the middle construction paper butterfly of kindergarten art projects of love. Messy and effortless, yet containing some inevitable beauty that comes from the close and intimate fusion of two halves.
I wanted to eternalize our connection through language,
But in the process, I unraveled it and left myself vulnerable and empty across from what was once the magic I had sought to know,
Now blurred, your name conjures an ink blot that my eyes have grown so accustomed to, they can hardly make out the hidden beauty.
I meant to write a poem with your name,
Yet mine has appeared on every quivering line.
A distorted self portrait of the artist echoed in my vain attempts to personify an emotion not yet felt.
I lost you in the very language that sought to immortalize you, and found myself in the process.
Your name no longer stood for the way your eyes light up when you talk about something of importance,
Or your genuinely lopsided smile and crooked tooth,
But instead, for all of myself that hide behind the capital Y of you:
All my missed opportunities and failures materialized in a poem that wanted so effortlessly to be about Love:
The crime of understanding a person as a metaphor
Echoes soundly through the hollow horizontal lines of words
That, if you squint just so,
Look faintly like the bars on a cage
With your name looming above its pearly gates,
Tragically beautiful yet motionless and with a purpose that has no impact
Beyond the world that it lingers about, yet never really enters.
Meka Boyle Feb 2011
Its crowded here in isolation
Trapped inside a cell made out of my subconscious creation
The commotion of emotion banging in my head
Breaking out of the silence, reality is dead
Reaching out for something beyond my comprehension
Inside a castle made of sand built up by tension
My only fear is fear itself
So I bottle my emotion and store it in a shelf
All I know is locked away
As I try to forget yesterday
Meka Boyle Mar 2011
You are the most intriguing person I've never met
With a face like yours I don't think I could forget
You linger in my dreams, drawing me in
It's as if it's real, I can almost touch your skin
I still have yet to meet you outside of my head
Yet when I do, nothing will need to be said
For the power your words contain
Would not be able to refrain
From unleashing the feelings which run through our veins
We're bound to destroy eachother
When our paths do collide
But only in that moment will I ever feel alive
For your very existence awakens my soul
Your the missing piece which will make me whole
The faintest image of you engulfs my sight
I get through my days by thinking of the night
Where you visit my dreams if only a moment
My heart is yours yet you don't realize you own it
Meka Boyle Dec 2015
You cannot resurrect
Memories
That
Have wedged themselves between
The future and the past,
Yet are too fragile to
Exist within the present—
You cannot
Resurrect
The way you felt
(The way you felt invincible)
In remembering mannerisms that outlive
The moment.
You cannot reconcile
The heart's defiance,
Deliberately giving yourself to
A void not of your own,
Gathering gathering gathering
Sentiment and stitching it into
The fabric of your narrative,
When you should have
Gathered your senses in a pail
And lowered them down into a wishing well...
You cannot resurrect what never
Wholly, entirely, unconditionally
Existed without
Your warm breath
Encompassing it in meaning,
Feeding an emptiness not of your own making.
Yet,
You cannot escape it either;
So it lingers:
Your regrets, your self loathing, your incapacity
To accept that
There is no way to breathe life back into
Something that was dead before you
Pressed its surface with your fingers,
As if you, yourself could
Impose a pulse upon what you could not
Understand.

Understand this,
Time will not resurrect
That which you long for in the night,
It will not reconcile
The incongruent nature
Of desire:
To feel
To be numb
To hold on to
To understand
To forget
To destroy
To save

Save like a wilted flower pressed between
Two aged, yellowed pages: present only in its allusion to the past.
You do not wish the flower a different fate,
To fill its dried up veins with green, pulsating life,
To have it become what it once was.
You cannot reconcile the purpose of its carefully preserved petals.
You do not question its existence,
Question why it has been uprooted from the ground,
Why it has changed shapes while remaining a flower.
It was never meant to remain the way it was.
And so, it exists
As an indicator of what it once was,
As a reminder that it will never be again,
As memories do
When we press them down
Between the past and the future,
Until like the dried up flower,
They cease to change,
As we continue.
Meka Boyle Sep 2012
There's a peculiar feeling about emptiness.
Like hundreds of misshapen rocks
Have all been carelessly dumped
Into the cavity which should hold
My red, pulsing heart.
It's not obnoxious
Or tangible,
But it lurks somewhere right beyond
I love you
And I miss you
And I don't care.
Like termites slowly devouring
An old pewter coffee table
Left on the corner in front of a tall
Decaying townhouse.
The legs slowly deteriorate,
Revealing their soft fleshy wooden insides.
There's no warning sign for this kind of
Isolation.
No tell tale symptoms
Or home made remedies
Of honey and camomile.
Flashing neon lights
Flicker and fade into the
Heavy night.
And symmetrical posters
Don't illuminate the pathway to loneliness like they should.
Instead,
It just creeps up on you when you're least expecting it,
Between casual conversations
And vulnerable moments of passion.
You can't stop it,
Or push it into a corner
The way you can with guilt
And premeditated promises.
It's too disfigured to be shut away in a symmetrical closet
Or empty dining room.
It's the absence of understanding,
The congested feeling in your lungs
And heart
And stomach,
That comes when you suddenly realize
No one understands.
It's unpredictable in that way,
The sudden realization,
There's no telling when it will spring upon an unexpecting moment,
And devour the innocence of longing.
But when it happens,
When your whole world feels frozen,
Stagnant and stuck between the cracks of reality,
And covered with a thin veil of dust
And failure,
When your throat is dry and chalky,
Full of almost there sentences
That dance in the chaos of your desperation,
You'll know.
Meka Boyle Jan 2011
she struggles to keep her head up
wishing someone would give her a heads up
of whats coming down the road
she's got a heavy load
on her back
you can see it in her tracks
that every day is a struggle
she dodges what life throws at her
when she gets hit, she juggles
but soon her act will fade
revealing her facade
its this day she must evade
she craves the limelight
yet hates the stage
dwelling in the fear of admitting she is afraid
living upto her self set standard
she is constantly in motion yet not moving forward
or towards
her destination
yet she continues they cycle
desperation
she longs for confromation
without confrontation
she fits right in with the youth of our nation
he knows what he wants
against all odds
he's sick and tired of being called a lost cause
tangled up in contradiction
yet so secure with his ambitions
constantly cutting the strings that tie him down
yet without them his feet don't touch the ground
unfamilliar with the term backing down
never has he been safe and sound
feeling the weight of his shackles and handmade crown
believing one must be lost in order to be found
life to him is like hide and seek
forn he believes to be vulnerable is to be weak
so to speak
he's tired of hiding and wants to be found
As he looks around
he comes to realize he's not alone
with his moral mutation
longing for validation
the constant need for stimulation
sparked by the sudden implication
he fits right in with the youth of our nation

— The End —