Your mood is bringing me down

The writing isn’t good enough,

Rough a minute, maybe more.

And me behind the trestle

Count my teeth with the back of my hand.

In jail I wreck and wrestle

The filthy disease.

Anything that’ll put me at ease,

I’ll take anything please

My laugh comes out in slurps.

Of the drinks we share,

It sounds like I don’t care

And I’m fine with that.

Not me and my fun,

Your mood is bringing me down

But I’m not.

Outer edge

I write my poems when I can,
I draw conclusions where I can.
But the brain’s fed
Full to the outer edge,
So scouring is the only task at hand.
And somehow that’s still not what I meant.
Silence trains my ear for a hidden thrum.
I’m so tired, this pillage of my inner hum.
But the tears, in a full loaded machine gun
Straight out of me, and down. Down they come.
Nothing about this is normal.
I proceed to the stigma’s core and melt there like magma.


Debris by the river

Brings out a face in the moss.

A frailty I’d amass in times not so long lost.

In a delicate brush past, the river tells the rocks

Not to worry ever more.

“Fate will always fate,

And pain will always hurt.

No joy is far too much,

No joy ever uncalled for.

Take whatever you can take

And spray it onto the world.”