Camouflage Daze: A Poem of Pain and Carving

I like to start off by saying I’m lost. There ain’t a map, way, or glossary to take it at all. Depraved. It ain’t sacred. I’m naked. Response? Scared of impatience, so anxious. I’m taking a fall. Fallacious. Paying contours gray with the absence of paint on the walls. State of elation? Sapped. And my grace?… is an absence of substance I take overhauled. Pass me your loving. Stay away from me. God. Give me a break. As I claim disarray as my God. Nirvana takes over as I ‘filet and then prod at my flesh ’til the red blends innately with smog. Americanah. So contagious. It’s gone. Now picture courageous in ‘bombs. To the point where bravery borders deception. Post-mortem, now all the good efforts feel ‘sort of neglected. I didn’t step on the landmine to be regarded as a hero. Now I man an unwanted purple heart for my ignorance. Zeroes and ones, binary, read on the backlight. A robotic grin erupts as they’re playing their bagpipes. Demolish my eardrums. Monkey hears no evil, but he fears what you strum, and. You pluck your guitar strings when we unveil relief in percussion.

A scar isn’t a scar without something that fits you. That’s why lovers carve into bark their somber initials. Take a stab in the dark. The knife? The same that my wrists used. The pain in your heart that’s engraved by a chisel. We stay after dark to praise a modern-day raising of art casing after a summer’s day wane in the park. I summoned your name, feigned dumb, but okay, as rain blushes. The chain rusting bathes off with the beige/bronze that pays homage to veins, like handcuffs snapped off, like a slash, as the blood lathers and stains. You can’t cut it, you can’t stomach the pain. You lunge after sensations you’re addicted to; as plains plummet in range. Don’t lay me to rest. Just lay me to misuse. Just lie me to waste. Let me lay with my issues. As the Nile drain drives me away, I wish trees were designed out of clay so my tears could cry them away. Wash out delays, instead of watching it blossom. They lied. There isn’t a foundation once you hit bottom. Staying awake, after days crouched from the sharpshooting. I call it a camouflage daze: Rehearsing what to say, so you sound sane when you talk to them.

JOURNAL: The Ineffable Embrace: When Words Fail to Capture Feelings

Sigh. The streetlight kissed your eyes and created an impression so pure, its whiteness. I bring this up because I fell in love by remembering my reflection off your iris. Expression in its highest form, sensory design to cure, destinies arrived. Analyzed the sculpture, of course, then vandalized your structure. Leaves falling aimlessly, in their phantom-like flutter. Randomized in the sputter of it all, only to capture geometry. If love reaches new heights, this colloquy is written in masterful mountains, parallel streets, the architecture of houses, potential surrounding of impeccable scenery only strengthened and balanced by the powerful breath breathed into me when your mouth pressed out in between, the sound effect of the pucker so loud, so vehemently. I remember a shroud of evenly distributed, heavenly eloquence, where blood cells held an exodus to swell in the realm of my lips.

Visited a palace of hymns where people would sing forever, rectify the devilish sin held in the pits that existed because we relished in them. To intensify my sensory limits, so inexplicably wicked, touching a galaxy. Lungs breathing love, lost and found, but what were we hiding and seeking from? Under an elm, deciduous. It was funny because that’s when I decided. Where the brushing of wind from Sandy slighted me above the stratosphere. We’re out of here, cusp of your hand became the new life vest where if it rained, I knew right then to hang by you, to clutch, until the waves subdued in horizons.

Hell-bent over control of my conscious, like I poured everything, and stanzas decomposed into options. The perfectness? Prose couldn’t match with it. Gravity didn’t have an emerging role in this drama and thesis portrayed through my soul, because I swear it rose, and nirvana’s capricious. Picture a boat, now picture it floating without water beneath it, still rocking along the coast, unbeknownst to a force that governs its beaches. Once I pulled you close to me and spoke in a manner, boldly enamored, dissolving distraction, your hips close to me after. It was poignant. I told you to kiss me, with the grip of your jeans intervening and lingering, memorizing the seams, and create macrocosms just between what I felt in my fingertips. Elevate my scarlet shard. That’s the end of the discussion. I could feel the eruption of your blushing, emanate from my arctic heart.

Hurricane winds made you clutch your arms in a defensive posture. This next sentence is a toss-up between a metaphor for intensive form or comparing your sensual heart hugs to a tropical storm. Love boat wasn’t enough to capsize in waves of charm. Awestruck, star-studded raindrops baptized our naked arms, established an anomaly so vastly diverse; I could only deduce it in a calculus version, gauge the geometric perversion, and argue that it was mathematically perfect. And by that? I came to animate inanimate objects, abstract art splattered paint so simple, my only explanation is that it had to be complex.

Consonant Artistry: A Poetic Exploration of Sound and Expression

I don’t even care about breathing air. A) It’s clearly a mission. B) Decided not to get angry today. It’s barely a decision. I think life should be grander than it is, but it isn’t. Can’t have regrets with being wrong; that’s why I love indecision. Sweater against chins, found myself looking for trouble. I love when the thread gets hooked to the stubble. Every day that awaits is merely a presence. Trepidation dismayed. Come on, spare me a second. Deliriums weighed out of space, a variable essence. Just savor today and take care of the present. A valiant way to go about positive pulses, to distract any and all cognitive focus. Bottled emotions are false; I recycle with candor. Light a candle for the fervor, yeah, I’m slightly enamored. Find me an ember, then signal me over. Superstar to the black hole you stitched in the nova. Pray to thy father for all lucrative sin. Indifferent with my efforts to feel human again, making deliberate errors to feel human again. I don’t feel human again. Oh my god, I don’t feel human again.

A crippling endeavor, how loose can I get? Mixing leisure with whenever = how’s the hubris in print? Ballad of blueprints I script; valid Freudian slips. That the entire, massive audience gets. Parrying my worries off with a quart of vodka and gin. Cocky with grins, cordial to the ghosts that I sleep with. Blood alcohol at about .8 for a better portion of the week. Speaking in harbingers, cohesive volume bleep. The final cut of “Lost in Translation” in scene, ironically explains my solitude deeper than any audible scheme. What a phenomenal feat, I still dream about the hairs on your neck. To tell this real boy that he’s still a marionette. Cut my heartstrings, in all fairness, respect. Your stare down had me speechless at my ventriloquist act. Webbing off surrealism, with tarantulan siege. Gargantuan in a glass jar, with nothing to reach. With nothing but handprints on the outside that acted as speech. Palpable. Weak.

I wish when I talked, that my words drew circles with supersonic aplomb. And my vowels would nonchalantly evolve through a canvas, through a gospel of songs that I draw within language. Go into a lobby, as if I’m talking to God, to what I embody; through an army of my consonant art.

A Parting Glass, Baby: Verses of Departure and Discovery

The moment was so existentialist.
I brought three apples, one for both of us, and one for the road.
If it comes up, I suppose we could split it,
undisclosed disposition,
hanging from the hammock ropes in the stitching.
There was hope for half-robed demolition,
a bungalow almost out of a dream,
quite a bit intensive, fictitious,
in the sense of paint peeling from white picket fences.
A strange feeling in front of the mowed lawn, in
between the solstice of summer and spring,
molded from the cumbersome explosions you’d bring.
Love, when she hands me her half-bitten apple,
as if it comes with an asterisk,
an ad-lib example of italics in the back of the index.
Take a bite out of the apple or take a bite out of me,
fall in love in the castle, fall in drown to the sounds of the sea.
Comparisons to the moon thought were drastically measured,
but I noticed high tide receded sunrise where my gravity centered,
upset. I bite my lips till blood spills in the battlefront mist,
not to inflict pain but deflect the traces of that dispassionate kiss.
Teeth marks turn into tattoos, covering the mistakes from the past,
the china vase that bloomed flowers but shattered, is only serrated as glass.
Lately, I feel sort of amazing, yet displaced and unreal,
unsanctioned, revealed, abated, idealistic adulation unveiled,
just waiting, unrelated, too anxious to seal the tiny indiscreet places unfilled.
Out on the rock, by the creek,
placing your hand on my cheek,
detached since forever, you help me make these connections I seek.
Never thought I’d be formal, but you make me feel normal, at least,
enthralled in coercion, your neglect changed me overall as a person.
Love was linear, so now I write love songs and sonnets in cursive,
despondent, subversive, a tire swing made from your ’91 Cherokee Jeep,
which showed me you still used parts from the past thrown away in the street,
connective to the stylus of the records through music created,
overuse of the grooves from the vinyl discarded my humanlike traits,
describing an incentive to twist, a sigh, and a scent of distress.
It’s funny and sad, I write to remind myself to remember to live.
If you’re reading this right now, I probably need to reevaluate my resolve,
dissolve in the Valium wake, retaliate from the maxims till I can barely walk,
I could barely talk. My adolescence consisted of wishing I died,
living without really having lived; now I don’t even think I’m alive.
Now even feeling a feeling is feeling contrived,
cause six feet seems like such a waste to shovel, just let the sediment dry.
Chesterfield smoke on Elmora and 5th, such a vivid annoyance,
beginning to fill my lungs with smoke that I’ve come to avoid.
Now I play the villain cause I just simply enjoy it.

Winter’s Chill: A Short Poem

It’s a carnival crush, from arcades to archaic.
From bouquets to berated. Here, have my cardigan, love.
Carving initials into the bark, nicking the surface,
Spellbound by the hand-strokes your wrist made with cursive.
A first-time impressionist, to see your signature engraved,
Tattooing mended wounds to suggest I was okay.

This Is My Last Shot, I Promise: Unraveling the Threads of Despair

Swore it was my last shot, promised it would be. It was the electric surge coursing through my conduits, a constant hum. I’ve been left alone, shadows have unfollowed me, but I’ve got 40 ounces that suggest I’ve done everything but bottle it up. My hair is falling out; I play a game, though I feel so ugly, I’m utterly defeated. I count the follicles, “she loves me… she loves me not,” with a sense of perverse pride. I dissect things logically, gladly picking them apart. Sadly, I find myself single-handedly pulling at the strings of your heart, stitching together compartments that house both fancy and fury. I live in this apartment, a shell of anger. I felt the shift in you when I put my fist through the door.

Sometimes, I listen to the pauses you take, the breaths, and the silences woven into every word, lost and adrift. I don’t really hear you, or even myself when I speak; it all seems to decay. I simply alter my demeanor and withdraw. It’s a constant struggle between me and my ego, a self-indulgent, heat-seeking endeavor. I’ve fallen in love with the unspoken nuances hidden beneath our masqueraded pretenses. I’ve lost count of the bridges I’ve burned along the way.

Blues and Bruises: A Selsun Blue Symphony

Grooving to the classics, velveteen smooth, with devilish antics.
Never seen through my pirate-themed ruse or the skeleton captain.
X-ray embellishing, developing cancer.
The elephant in the room, and the rest is in captions,
subtitled. Lexicons added for your pleasurable view,
I’ve got a penchant for ad-libs.
Subdued in my intelligence, say hello to the masses;
yeah, it’s just you, some gel tablets, and the medicine cabinet.
They’re like a president’s cabinet, a group of advisers:
the Vicodins, the vice president, the alcohol, the confidant,
all loose on the side. Hiding the bruises you’ve captured.
A group of counselors, grouped into family matters ending in -cillin.
The chancellor, the consultant, all there to mentor you, alla’them chilling ,
as if it was meant to instill some impressionable feeling.
Dandruff building, scratching until it bleeds,
where’s the Selsun Blue?
Telekinetic view, light a match
until it ceases and recedes until the black
hits my thumb. Black from the burning.
The burn will bring me back from the dumps.
Marvel at the stars, watching the TV watching me from the sofa.
I turn on the TV but drown it out with the garbage disposal.
My credit score is pristine, except I crashed my car last year.
Now I have nightmares about Geico could save me fifteen percent.

Close to the Edge of Regret: A Portrait of Isolation

He drifts through life, an elusive specter of emotional detachment. His friends, mere stand-ins for the void that lingers within, serve as placeholders in a desolate existence. In his solitary moments, he’s tempted to serenade himself while tending to nonexistent plants, a poetic yearning for a connection with nature that remains unfulfilled.

He dances with actions he later laments, a discord of choices and regrets, tangled like a web in his tormented psyche. Regret becomes his constant companion, an enigmatic shadow cast by deeds both committed and omitted. A heart, once gilded with hope, now mired in decay, bears the scars of unspoken sorrows.

He gazes upon pretty faces, seeking solace or salvation, finding amusement in the theatrics of humanity’s grand masquerade, all performed in stealth. His cry for help is cloaked in the guise of self-sufficiency, a silent plea that he masks effortlessly.

“I don’t,” he declares, rejecting the notion of need. What he truly craves is a fragment of hope, the bedrock on which to establish sound footing in a world that constantly threatens to pull him under.

Today, the simple act of toothbrushing eludes him. Instead, he commits to memory the braille-like patterns etched into his plaque, indifferent to their fate in his daily routine.

His friends smile, blissfully unaware of the tempest that rages within him. The warmth of sunshine is an opportunity to bask in the fleeting embrace of sun rays, to stretch his weary back and fingers toward the heavens. Yet, he questions, “Why?” A sigh of disillusionment escapes his lips, refusing to engage in a debate of differing opinions, for what’s the point when nothing matters?

He remains an island of indifference in a sea of fervent causes. “I don’t care,” he mutters, disengaged from the million battles people wage, for his war unfolds silently within the confines of his own mind. It’s a minuscule arena where the weight of millennia rests heavily on his shoulders, suffocating him to the point where even drawing breath feels like an arduous task.

He makes sounds, inhuman noises reminiscent of a mournful puppy, disoriented by the cacophony of fragmented voices that have led him to this desolate place. His eyes well up with tears, and his throat aches from the unspoken sorrows that weigh him down, like an anchor to the depths of despair.

Fatigue and discontent are his constant companions. The imprint of his body on his bed has become a work of art, a testament to his inertia and solitude. He abstains from the numbing embrace of alcohol and drugs, not out of virtue, but out of sheer boredom. He’s too uninspired to become a worse version of the self he barely recognizes.

At the Doors of My Desolation

I’m trapped in this love for you, and it’s a place I wish I could escape from. I can’t help but hold you responsible for the mess I’m in, even though, deep down, I know it’s not your fault. You were just this tiny glimmer of hope, a speck of light in the pitch-black abyss of my life.

I can’t forget that one particular moment when you hugged me. It was at your doorstep, right after you came back from wherever. I thought I knew you inside and out, and I had a little something for you, probably flowers – but honestly, I can barely recall. As you disappeared behind those glass doors, you had no clue it was me standing there. I’d been dropping hints about leaving in my messages, but you didn’t quite catch on.

Then, you opened the door, and I started saying things that, in retrospect, didn’t matter at all. Silly stuff like, “Why didn’t you…” But what’s haunting about that memory is that I was desperately trying to push away the overwhelming wave of emotions your hug had stirred in me. I was attempting to shield myself from being utterly consumed by your touch, even if it was just a simple hug. So, I babbled on, hoping it would somehow distract from the intensity of the moment.

But you, you hugged me harder right there on your doorstep. You pulled me close, almost as if by instinct, but it was a passionate pull that yanked me deep into your world. I remember it so vividly, even though it’s been two long years. It feels like it happened just a few hours ago. Time has lost all meaning for me.

To give you an idea, people ask me how long it’s been since I last got a haircut, and I casually say, “Oh, just a few months.” In reality, it’s been well over two years. I’ve completely lost my grasp on time, and that hug was the catalyst for this strange and twisted time warp I’ve been trapped in.

Recently, a coworker patted me on the back to brush off some dirt, and I didn’t want them to stop. It’s bizarre how even the most mundane interactions with people, like a simple pat on the back, can transport me right back to that damn doorstep.

Nowadays, when I hug someone, I do it with an intensity that borders on obsession. I want them to remember those hugs, to feel what you made me feel, day in and day out.

If I had the power, I’d pay a king’s ransom to Picasso – and even more to whoever could resurrect him – just so we could go back in time to that precise moment when your arms enveloped me. You were wearing that black coat I’d never seen you in before. I’d want him to immortalize that moment in a painting and name it “Broken Heart.” Because at that moment, my heart wasn’t broken; it was whole, it was healed. But in the days, months, and years that followed – well, in my world, it all felt like mere minutes – it got shattered all over again.

I often wonder if anyone can even begin to fathom the turmoil I endure every single day, all because of a damn hug. It’s infuriating, really. I just wish I could breathe freely once more.

Unearthing the Mind’s Explosive Secrets

Tired of decomposing, dried up, my dreams are dozing,
My body has peaked the opus, through godly retreat,
I hope, trying to feel a pulse, a pariah that feels opposed,
Pinching my grip, controlling, picture my mind in solace.

Pitching and writhing, gritting and grinding my teeth to focus,
Witch-doctors reveal a poem, my palms have been reading growth,
Exhausted, my being’s broken, loathe signs that concede to smoke,
I need the tar to feed compulsions, exhaust that secretes emotions.

Tyrants as deacons, posing; Goliath as people cloaking,
A lion in sheeplings’ clothing, a tiger that feels repulsed,
About the lines that he sees his coat in, why do I feel insulted?
Sonnets revealed in quotient, to calm this conceited ghost,

But while I sleep, I know that the mind is a demon’s crow’s nest,
Fire that feeds ferocious, piles of sheathed explosives.

Cambridge Whispers: A Tale of Eloquence and Enigma

Fireplace with Tourette’s, pops and crackles in depth,
Drunkenly asking questions I wouldn’t dare, I was shy,
Recherché brunette, with curlicue braids on her head,
There’s a reason wine glasses are in the shape of a Y.

Fork in the road, left or go right, slicing tension with knives,
I went left, it felt right, spooning you ’cause the etiquette’s nice,
Drinking the truths I fed you, intoxicated with lies,
Sedated and high, I’ve contemplated for help.

What kills you isn’t the virus, it’s the inoculation itself,
It’s what helps you and what hurts you, it’s complicated as hell,
Whatever, that isn’t what I wanted to say,
I wanted to go, but in jest, I wanted to stay.

It’s getting awfully late, capturing arguments offside,
Cured by clever wording, Cambridge-Oxford alumni,
Defunct and debased, aim the hair and the trigger,
Selfishly enamored with death, a date at 8, before dinner.

Ignoring the nosebleed as I stare in the mirror,
Tighten my necktie, debonair of elixir,
Ignored the pain, hailed a taxi to a chain up in Gloucester,
Took off her pea coat, pulled up her chair, and with posture,

Stayed after pay, after lobster, chatting crucially after,
Doodled on napkins, flirty exchanges on contours,
“Draw a monster for me. Now, what makes it a monster?”
Voodoo and magic, pin the needle on the doll,

Incognito, high libido in the stalls,
Torpedoed, and we fall, mistaking distress ’cause I’m loyal,
Disrobing attempts at joy, sex as a crutch to enjoy you,
Aware, but yet not so, picked up on the influenced behavior,

Clues like, you were nice to me, but were rude to the waiter,
Apprehensive as creatures, egotistical shroud we bestowed,
Jealous of the fires made when I was set out in the cold,
Mistakes are subjective, practicing repetition till death,

Like a photo out of focus is a blunder, but ten are a trend,
Ambien, ambiance, ambulance, a picture of you in a locket near my heart’s strings,
Open it up, learning to stop looking for happiness where I lost it.

Dancing in the Fireworks: A Sensory Delight

Dreams and reverie boast,
Roasted with pearly green chimerical gold.
God Delusion. Hallucinating a miracle told,
Where lightning strikes the conscious,
Lively minded, constant.
Smile by a goddess,
Where perfection’s unfurled by Pangaea,
Curvy hips, sangria, and rooftops,
Inebriated in a sea, with a jukebox.
Charismatic, dispelling drama, adorable,
Gospel sings for the saga approaching,
Americanah and rooted, salsa and dance,
Savannah beauty, with a lot to command,
Sailor of wisdom, a body tailored for rhythm,
Samba routine, enigma, for her frolicking waist,
Marvelous taste, whiskey and fruit wine,
Yin and yang in spirit, spirits and moonshine,
Clamoring percussion, fireworks on the eve,
Ten seconds for eruption, heart on her sleeve,
Little black dress, static libido,
Attracted me, magnetic tuxedo,
Countdown in Manila, three seconds to go,
Loud sounds pound now, as we disrobe.