acraein

The tongue I’m biting on

is the tongue that doesn’t quit.

And in all the old records

wish I’d used my teeth sooner.

But I don’t know the state you’re in.

Washington?

Porcelain?

I’ll wait and see.

–

Smooth skin I was writing on,

write fast, memory goes quick.

According to old records,

insight lost the fight for

I fell into a state of mind.

Borderline

cognizant

–

that I could even talk at all.

Communication’s just a thing

I didn’t have. I didn’t call.

Now it’s old and splintering.

–

The hands for writing on

are hands of a finer grit.

And in all the old records

my hands foretold the future

that I cannot see that face again.

Face of sin.

Inky skin.

A poor medium.

–

And instead I sang some psalm.

Then laid the shit on thick.

And I didn’t win awards.

I know I lost our fight for

connection of an honest kind.

A mastermind

disinclined

–

to even talk at all.

Communication’s just a thing

I do not have. I don’t recall

having said anything.

Tags: poem, Poems, Poetry, reflection, Reflections, writing

Acetone – Germs

There’s a lifelong montage

with almost no audio

just your own breath and footsteps.

Your ride is not exquisite when

you’ve blinked and you’ve missed it.

And strangers won’t tell you you’re fascinating,

your ego cogs need more calibrating.

–

And it helps if you’ve had

a few daydreams maybe

enough to sever tethers

that tie you to this Earth.

–

It’s the meeting of

sea green green of the sea

and the green gray sky above the marina.

It’s the reach for the stars

with your feet in the waves.

–

The skin of my feet

the seed of a pearl

keeping my head above the rolling fogs

of drunkenness, lust and greed.

My light may shine but I’ll never be freed.

Tags: poem, Poems, Poetry, reflection, Reflections, writing

Major Label Debut (Slow)

I could give it to the gulls most every season.

And I could split my eyes upon the stone.

Some chore to do.

Some thought to atone.

–

Well I’m just here to talk about the day

the autumn leaves had spun you a dress

down by the lake.

Totally weightless.

–

And I’m not fucked up

anymore

And im not fucked up.

–

A lot of times it’s not a certain thing.

And God I hate the way you shook my shoulders.

The demons I sing

have melded with hers.

–

Taste her hair, fumble pants.

Easy to sing the words that I know.

Dancing a dance

to the song that I wrote.

–

And I’m not fucked up

anymore.

Not fucked up.

–

In the end it’s medication I seek.

A quick dose of feeling old feelings.

Sound of the creek,

another form of healing.

–

Unless it’s mistakes I make again.

Then I live them every verse,

in every refrain,

shame and a curse.

–

I’m not fucked up.

Anyways…

Not fucked up.

–

I know it’s the case with every good thing.

The way the down’s just a little bit further.

You know every ring

comes with a burglar.

–

But back to the foliage dancing,

and pretty birds with colorful ribbon.

That’s really everything

I came to speak on.

Tags: poem, Poems, Poetry, reflection, Reflections, writing