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 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

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.

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.

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

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

it’s quiet and i hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder
i hear nothing but the paper
burn as my inhale imitates the gust of
wind that guides the cold to shutter skin —
street lights sit above the lit, white-flowered flakes
as they dance to the ground as a group
that whisper soliloquies to the crimson
lobes that hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder,
a hazy fog covers the air before my face
as it sways from nostril to upper lip —
a sight down to an illuminating ash,
blinking to meet a lid to whited lash —
as the paper burns
the smokey sky is content
with silence and nothing more
than a look to the fields                             MJB