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Tyler Mar 2021
Blood was running down my spine and
All I could think of was if you
would think more of me for this. And
Would you slowly run your fingers
Over my delicate raised wound,
Over and over and over.

I don’t believe anyone that says
They “like” the feeling of getting
tattooed. Feeling the needle dig
Remorselessly into your skin.
Again and again, rapidly,
But seemingly completely at
Ease—confident, collected, cool.
And then there’s the anxiety.
The ******* endless anxiety
Of change. Irrevocable change that
Voluntary scarring and a
Set rate of one hundred dollars
Per hour for a C-rate tattoo
Artist who smells strongly of ****.
And I hate ****, all it does is
Make me anxious. Just like change, and
Like every time I get another
Tattoo. But I did this on a
Whim, without thought of pain or angst.

I had blood running down my spine
Just so you might want to see it,
And maybe think more of me, and
Maybe run your fingers slowly
Over my delicate raised wound
Over and over and over .
Tyler Mar 2021
Drunk, ******, and filled with glass.
Draping my broken arms around you,
And through pursed lips I think,
“I’m so sorry for everything.”
I meant it. God I did. God I do.
Even with my vices I know
Love is more than pretty words.
More than you, me, more than poetry.
But God we were so close to infinite,
So close to indescribable.
Beautiful, perfect, lovely, flaws and all,
And that’s us, and I still believe
I’ve never looked better
Than I did in my reflection in your eyes.
Tyler Jan 2021
I became what I once hoped you wanted
Through years passed, years dead, and gone but not forgotten
With paintings of you dried like ink on skin
Through memories pondered, missed, and aged but not rotten

I never jumped off bridges except when i did for you
But still never enough to force moments to their crises
Never enough to satisfy, never enough to understand
But enough to never forget those ****** irises

A funny thought is, they never had a color to me
They were just what they were
Heavens gates couldn’t be so lovely
My world was those eyes, the rest was a blur

A funny thought is, that I am content
Finally understanding what it all meant
Tyler Dec 2020
There’s a ticker tape parade on 7th street
And I’m contemplating the life and times of James Joyce. That’s my scene. In another a beautiful woman is staring in the mirror; Inquisitive as she is, she ponders the pros and cons of having her nose touched up. She’ll never make up her mind, but time will for her. “I should have been a pair of ragged claws.” Joyce says, to which I reply, “What the ****?” I like to get into fights. On 7th street a child is riding on his fathers shoulders, smiling, without any knowledge of the ions of death destruction and oppression which humanity has toiled through in the midst of patriarchal norms and bourgeois practices of power and control that have led up to that moment in which he laughs as a float with a Lockheed Martin logo passes by. I envy him. Why yes, I do attend a liberal arts college.
Tyler Nov 2020
The bitter cold snarls and bares it’s teeth,
With a clenched jaw and fingers tightly wrapped
Around a secret but known hidden sheath.
Bravely but terribly gazing into the dark.
I’ve seen it day and seen it night.
Seen it in reflections of paintings and in men
Of a terrible manner; men of a hideous nature.
Seen it in questions asked of “where” and “when.”
Seen it brush against the tips of my fingers,
But too far off to grasp or possess.
Too far off to hear my whisper, “I beg you, yes.”

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.

And so I’ve heard their cries
From time to time, and seen
Their looks; entertained their lies,
And they were always filled with mercy.
Kindness, sympathy, pity, and some shame,
And I would admit that that being that is best.
For if the scene were to reach its crescendo,
If questions were asked, answered and put to rest.
Then where would we go from there?
To a thousand simple thoughts,
A hint of passion, a little wit,
To the blackest crevice of a burrowed pit

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.

Hopefully, soon, you will forget my name,
The tyranny of courteous chains, relinquished.
Broken, buried, but survived by shame,
And wouldnt that be what’s best?
And would you notice?
How I sink into defeat,
As a thousand thoughts replace a thousand more;
Of how you’ll see my little retreat.
And will you see past the space in my eyes?
Seven galaxies between you and me.
Filled with lines crossed, broken, and blurred,
Laid out neatly before us, word by word.

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.
Tyler Jul 2020
You were a stranger,
And I loved you before I knew you,
But it was a conditioned love.
For if you didn’t look like you did,
Or talk like you did,
Or think like you did,
I wouldn’t have loved you at all.
If you were nothing like how you were,
I would have never loved you.
So it was a conditioned love,
And you were passive about it all.
It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t help who you were.
But you never stopped it.
You let it fester,
And let me burn for you with
Love and lust until the two became one,
And it became all I was.
The air I breathed was for you.
So I burnt and you watched,
Or maybe you didn’t,
Maybe it was too terrible to see.
All I know is that you’re covered in my ashes,
And you look stunning in grey.
Tyler Jun 2020
Charles you’re looking pale
And your fingers are curved
And clenched, and cold, and light
They feel like a chill around my throat
You should really get some rest
Or maybe drink some wine
You oppress me with your conversation
And I never know what to say when you’re like this
Hit me, Charles.
I want you to hit me.
Maybe one of us would feel something if you did
Maybe we could live a little
Because this isn’t life, Charles
This is Hell
And you started the fire
And I hold the keys to every room
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