Always a Story

The weight of explaining to someone how you've changed. They stare in expectation, knowing, wanting, waiting for your story, because there is always a story. To sum a lifetime of nuanced actions, reactions, insults, injuries, scars, starts, start-overs, endings, renderings of every you from every time and the culmination of every life you've lived in your lifetime of living... the thought feels a forgery. The question puts words in our mouths and minds as gospel, but we will change again, and those words turn false from hymnal...

Anxious Appeal

bulidup to bigger breaths from the edge of every bed. pressure filled from somewhere in some sidestreet soliloquy you once forgot you said; and since forgotten thoughts all haunt your head. the anxious quilt to cover up until you pull a thread. and up and down, and lost the crown, the cool is fucking dead. your chest is full and scared until the air unfurls, then fade to dreams forever before the scheme repeats.

All In Range

i close my eyes and look for mountains. alone i see the stars. somewhere i hear my name. all in all it's all in range. take it on for all mistakes and past unpleasant pleas. no glory in un-futures made, no blessings by the sea. again i'll scrape the stars in silent me.

In Uncondition

the fault in conditions is the fault in all our faces; a famous lack of understanding, of unconditional terms, traced back to unbelievable words in moments when vulnerability hurt the worst. all of this becomes default, and framework for declarations of disbelief. the hardest one to love in uncondition is you, and only in periods, long, and sometimes lonely periods of strength through self study and big questions stared out bigger windows into the biggest backyards do we dare to even dream to love ourselves as much as someone else once has. this is as difficult to accept as to conceive, and many will live full lives as only silhouettes; but, those questions stem to answers, and answers to understanding, understanding bridges change and soon we form shadows in those same old window frames, in bright light and adoration. the process is what paints us, the picture presents us to the world.

Drunk Messiah

I can come as close to god in any three letter word as any drowned out drunk believes. holy spirits, high stakes, graceful saints in shambles shading smooth poetic truths. they stumble through the tall grass in broken shards and bleed to bliss. mumbling hymns for sinners. holy wars, for holy ghosts, from holy waters spoke. they come in three, to blind believe a word a god alone.

Retreat, Resolve

these trailing months in their life-white veil to fade the front let hindsight thrive in cold sole nights to forward face the day and let us prey on past discord. rest easy under warmth in sheets of resolve to better brave new faction. let history be only the tool to take us back in spectral observation when lack of sight shows not where we're led. no ghosts today, no past tomorrow. hold in heart the amity of you and you. winter will reflect in accord with bright of snow, hold close for heat those holy hours when you are your retreat.

Good Winter

I sit here solemn under skull & bones among these colors, caught by corner consciousness. in good winter wonder, love, what revolution must have held for us. in bottom bottles and pinprick baited breath, I struggle still to leave forever what's been left when only Christmas creaks could last.

Eager Sleep, Believer's Shore

such eager sleep i'm drawn, arms outstretched for dawn. we'll never reach, we'll never speak. the shore outlines the fall. in melted days before, arms outstretched i loved in all my worst and kissed in all my best so sleep for now and sleep forever melt along the shore. if we cold only speak the beach was just a moor.

Encore Everyday

this blessed binary, this only other self. person and persona through the encore every day. the past at last will come to play, but in the hours in between who forever came to stay?

Still The Silent Night

sing a silent night,
sing a holy chord.

the silence all alone at night,
the silence all a chorus.

feign and reign and blessed thou,
blessed are the bright.

in eyes and lies
the truth to stand
draped in holy style

Tapped

a vein that runs through me that still belongs to you, and when i tap that rush, that flood, that fools excuse...so only now i'll whisper still the truth that pours to chill; this place it taps a vein in me that still belongs to you.

Wide Eyed and Whiskey

what world for you endured in outskirts of convention? far from home and the comfort of that old front door, fleshed from the threshold in mind, reduced to fading contemplative notions in wistful times and reminders of never going back. the climb was longing, the tears revealing, smiles unnerving and the cost all blood, but the crest is high and the wave is riding while the view stays foreign, wild, and the whiskey burning irish. the good ones close now, the mad ones madder, the penance softer by soliloquy, and still, the sun sets in esoteric evenings, red and orange equal on the ground.

Breadth and Brevity

theres breadth inside our brevity. alive between the lines. a side street and a precipice, we'll always own this night. twined beneath the city lights to blame our slow decline, and press against that blackened bastion to claim the time we couldn't miss

Pale Horse Nights

but who are you in the dark? when all the world stops watching, the only voice your own, to reign on ghosts alone. born to bear the weight, the albatross, dare to sleep with whiskey on your breath, and flashes of sudden memorial from past loves and pressure on your chest. the path a sullen iteration in the form of regret and a self portrait, tired eyes and torrid stories hanging duly from your neck. when you lie alone where do you wander? to the future infatuated, the past in penance, or present times for preservation. stoned nomadic, for the minds a wily bastard on nights each pale horse rides.

Blessed Rogue

always infatuated on my time with certain smiles, bags under my eyes. define that shade of red, and the way it kissed the sky. the lines are blurred objective ere the early stages rest, imagination onward wanders as all such rogues are blessed, to stop and spell the names of all the loves, dressed for death each holy night.