Skip to main content

Smoking Mistletoe
















Smoking Mistletoe





You've got me riled up/
These emotions pile up/
And I am stuffed/
Back down into a vial of/
Stifled love/
It's a virus from/
My early days as a child from/
The land of brightness cut/
In half by silent runs/
To you and slicing hugs/
I am stuffed/
With drying crumbs/
Sliding from/
The dying blood/
Spurting from the heart of this vile crutch/
You've become to me/
Slumbering/
In the eye of such/
A beholder, denying what/
I've earned begrudgingly/
Through all this suffering/
You come to me/
So lovingly/
Only to say were nothing, please/
Be done with me/
I'm shuddering/
As I'm shutting these/
Broken windows/
So the hopeless widow/
Cant choke and elope/
With me again, my soul is brittle/
And I mostly feel so/
Lonesome, with those/
Empty promises a joke, a riddle/
I cant expose or lift so/
I'm frozen stiff close/
The doors because the moment's ripped, go/
I'm only gripped so/
Tightly because the echoing wisps of/
Smoke and mistle-/
Toe's adrift, floats/
Into my home and sits so/
Precarious/
These arrogant/
Attempts at a "we" bury this/
Honed and wishful/
Deep weariness/
I see merriment/
In your eyes/
An esteemed variant/
Of a bride/
That leaves dreariness/
Every night/
As I awaken and weep carelessly/
For the dream tearing me/
Apart, at least sharing this/
With you released fairy tales/
From my heart, I bleed berry and/
Scarlet from my beat larynx and/
Teeth baring at/
Reality I sweep, parry it/
Swing, cherishing/
This pain I keep carrying/
This port I leap, sailing in/
Angry/
Deranged, these/
Emotions make me/
Realize I may be/
Trapped in a belief daring me/
To play Russian Roulette with a sleek derringer/
Cause I allowed myself a slight instance/
Of letting light in with/
A purpose, to like prisms/
Of fire rippling/
Through the dry twigs and/
Leaves of my prison/
Denied visions/
Of what my instincts said would be my crippling/
Sentence, the tithe given/
I'm an idiot and she is my village/
The crime stripping/
Me of the knowledge that let's me fly within/
My personal harem/
I dont care if/
The world is scared when/
I take the mic in this/
Hand and speak rhymes, sylla-/
Bles and tie ribbons/
With language/
It's my savior/
Not a paper/
Tiger that acts sly, kisses/
Me, denies, listens/
Then leaves while I writhe, slipping/
In and out of a dime's wishes/
This is my purpose/
I'll live in earnest/
I write, live and/
Might hit this/
Side blistering/
Cause I'm the right villain/
This is a divine image/
That I'm dipped in/
And I've realigned with it/

Popular posts from this blog

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature. I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life. Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters. I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically min

Outrunning The Reaper

Outrunning The Reaper The concept of aging intimidates me.  I wont say it scares me, because I feel that I've done the very best I can at retarding, delaying, and combatting it.  My training, which in the past prioritized hypertrophy and strength, misapplied in a hilariously misinformed fashion, has altered severely.  When I first got to Hawaii in 2017, I experimented with the idea of adopting EMOM (Every Minute On the Minute) training, a methodology I'd learned from studying Crossfit.  At that point I was doing 5 sets of Freestanding Handstand Pushups a day, with each set's repetitions decreasing incrimentally, following the Recon Ron Pullup Program.  It's available for free online, and a simple Google Image search will allow one to locate the entire workout.  I would sometimes do it twice a day, and before I stopped it, I was doing around 77 Handstand Pushups a session.  Back then I fancied myself a badass for completing such a "large" amount of volume in 1

Candlelight

Candlelight I've often been asked why I haven't written a novel yet, or even a short story on its own, let alone a collection of them.  While I've written enough poetry to fill several reams of factory fresh printer paper, and my prose on this very site could be collected, condensed, and categorized into an efficient little e-book, I simply cant find the motivation to write something that lengthy.  Stephen King once said in an interview that the secret to his prolific literary output was to, simply, write.  He sits at his desk every morning, puts his hands on his keyboard, and let's his fingers dance and twirl until 2000 words are peering back at him from the soft glow of his monitor.  I certainly admire such ardent consistency, and do actually apply it in my private writing, namely my journaling. But when books to be sold for mass consumption and profit are called into question, I suffer the inevitable bout of writer's block that eventually plagues us all so stubbo