the moon chokes in its cradle. 
the light surrenders the last of its defiance. 

now we are the flesh that's left on their bones. 
after all their graves have been finalized. 

the dead have their voices.
in the corners of our skin. 

long after their faces have been worn away. 
their stones still rattle in our chests. 

confounded by the animal within. 
our words tear at the paper. 

the world is a curious contraption.
that runs on blood and sweat.

its function wholly dependent
upon blind obedience. 

the buttons are soft on time's weary keyboard.

all our dogged epiphanies summarily dismissed.

no more wilted adjectives to give us pause.

the chains are limp on truth's withered engine.

as we barrel forward. blindfolded and adamant.

the last of our claws sold to the sheep.

trust is a vile consent. built on borrowed beginnings.

we spend our choices on temporary things.

because temporary is what we've always been. 

alcoholicpoet.com

 the villain makes his entrance in the spaces we've neglected. the trees clench their fists. distraught at the apathy of the forest. 

we slip into the void. sour candy melting into our lips . distant voices shout at the colors that have bled into our wounds. 

the little doll has her stones sharpened. as the fairy tale comes to its apex. 

the breath of the wolf hot on the back of her neck. 

breadcrumbs fall like tears as she stumbles over her  beaten path. 

all the witches stoke their cauldrons. her journey corrupted by stolen skin. 

she looks the wolf in the eyes. prepared to be eaten. 

she asks the wolf how big his teeth are. 

and he just grins. 

she smiles back. daring  him to swallow. 

knowing that he'll choke on her. 


Filed under: Sad Poems December 2024

alcoholicpoet.com

a sad poem about inevitable decisions. 


the canopy of time. all festering knots and shivering resentment. a stilted assembly of changes never to be realized.

the end has its own voice. the quiet disciples of why. they peel away our skin looking for the monsters underneath.

evolution is weak. like gravity.

we fall not because, but in spite of it.

we polish our crowns while the wind chews up our paper wings.

the economy of choice is such that the balance is always negative.

the truth is loud enough, but we choose not to hear.

the doors to our cages are unlocked, but still we don't leave.


Filed under: November 2024 Sad Poems

alcoholicpoet.com

when we were new and gentle the world would let us run. we had no need for promises.

everything was small. and the things that we wanted were irrevocably ours. 

but time must draw its nooses. and nooses will always find their necks.

now we are worn and aggressive. animals chafing against a stiffening leash.

every breath thick with the places that we've been. strays dropping breadcrumbs on a one way street.

we look in the windows. but all we see is our own reflection.

we knock on the doors. but inside, no one answers. 

skin is paper. touch is ink. words are the poison that wears our faces. 

it's a fever of choices. dominoes tumbling in an endless cascade of why.

inside an abattoir of questions. 

as we chew on the fingertips of time. 


Filed under: Sad Poetry November 2024

alcoholicpoet.com

This poem is about knowing yourself in spite of how others may perceive you. 

 louder than i remember it. quieter than it's ever been. thieves in plastic masks. wearing smiles made of skin. 

the edge kept pushing long after we'd fallen. 

the lies held their breath. the zippers sharpened their teeth.

we were counting out loud. as if someone was listening.

the sky fell. just as we knew it would.

we pretended to know. because that was our only defense.

collecting the buttons as the machine fell apart.

imagining someday the puzzle could be solved.

little dolls spent by catastrophe.

flaunting themselves in dirty dresses that never fit quite right. 

Filed under: September 2024 Poetry

alcoholicpoet.com

the atoms collided. the molecules danced.

they touched. strangers in familiar skins. tasting each other's scars.

the walls shifted. worn by scavengers.

she solved the maze. only to find there was no exit.

she paused at the fissure. mesmerized by the disaster.

foolish enough to bargain with the ghosts.

the hours chewed on the pulp, but never swallowed the meat.

her voice all static. coins in torn purses. spent on nothing.

she looked over the edge. surprised by its redolence.

she looked over the edge. and listened as gravity laughed. 

Filed under: Sad Poems September 2024

 narrow angles wear our choices. skin folds. the stale vanity of broken men.

the lies build their trembling houses. and we paint their walls in vinegar and smiles. 

the tortoise is lost. discarded by the race. the hare is dead. 

tell tomorrow to stop counting.

the world is crippled. the sky has fallen. 

turn the ignition on these bodies. choke on the exhaust. 

time places its bets. on the lonely and the arrogant. 

the boy cries wolf. fractured machines swallow the remains of the sun. 

the distance chafes against our progress. 

the miles undress. shivering advocates of happily ever after. 

tabulate the wager. the numbers wear us. 

all the debts this skin has accumulated. 

warm beds and cruel dismissals. 

open sores and soft caresses 

the cost ours to calculate.  

wear the cold. like a tattered blanket.

shiver through the rages of consent. 

time chews softly on the glass.

as we count the raindrops. 

the world is raw.

all scabs and broken skin.

we stutter.

as all our words betray us. 

let the rain fall. tomorrow is the broken glass upon which we tread. 

time taps a vein and bleeds into our throats. a chameleon. a dictator. and a liar. 

let the rain fall. hope is the sickness that wears our faces. 

the machine bites its gears. as the truth unwinds.

choices form like icicles. 

hope is the stones in our pockets. as the flood calls our name. 

time draws its naps in our skin. a savior. a thief. and a prophet. 

reluctantly, we let it take us. and we are swallowed by the detours. 

let the rain fall. we're drowning either way. 

take the colors. give them new names. bartering with minor gods. 

the world is all sawdust and semen. in the jagged nightmares of little girls. 

time comes in doses. a foul medicine. for a sickness that cannot be cured. 

turn the gears. left the engine play its hungry song. 

our feast comes after the music has stopped. 

chase the thieves. as if what they've stolen had ever really been ours. 

 surrender. embrace the raw of empty cages. as the key hangs from the lock. 

swallow the words. fondle the stones that weight our pockets. dare the grief  to drown us. 

the simple ache of the sun as it reproaches the glass. voices spent in curious fictions. moments divided. by zero. by less.

the ample contrition of abundant flesh. all bee stings and snake bites in the thick grass that fills our lungs.

it wanders. strays from the path. distracted blood turning hard. tightening loose bandages.

the window. left open. a barrier even so. the wall. thin between. obstinately enduring. a kingdom of vacant rooms. a parchment of empty beds. thirsty for ink.

the switch on the wall. trembling with blindness. with sight. the simple slope. the inclined plane of touch. that shifts the weight. that makes us feel stronger.

causing atlas to shrug.

missing turns chase the road. curious angles draw the map.the truth is that line that creates the horizon. the division between Earth and sky. the place we long to reach that always recedes as we approach it. feather and bone without wings.

the world encroaches. all detours and drawbridges. ripe enough on its own. but sweeter on the return.

the years sweat and bleed. a long series of open wounds. we're hurt. we heal. repeat.

the chase takes us farther. the hunt brings us home. the appetite of the flesh and the hunger of the soul.

there are intersections. colors coaxed from skin. greys still to be told. life moves through us. a raging locomotive. emerges on the other side a trembling victim.

words fail to find us as we languish in the depths of our discovery. this paradise of ghosts.

it's the end. the featureless void. temples in solvent ink. and the curious monsters who worship.

the trembling miles. dim switches in the shadows. crumble and bleed. time's lazy asssassins whet their blades.

the dirty switch. the struggling bulb. the torn path that chases us home again. empty chambers in the gun. the simple economics of everything lost.

the waning kingdom. tears in the skeleton. folds in the scars. the absolute cost. the future in card tricks and bus strops.

the angle hissed. the atom splits. nothing moves. the ladder trembles. the doorway whispers. we go on. it's the end of the world. and it isn't.

the structure of anatomy. the integrity of flesh. a simple conundrum. vaguely solved in simmering walls and missing windows.

the miles had already been spent. plastic flowers and toy soldiers. caught in a perfectly impossible war.

she kept counting. though the numbers were gone. she kept going. though the map had stopped.

places become her. the simple poisons of choice and want. the journey bargains with itself. a template of surrender. ink falls on the sharp edge of the paper. in a promise of words.

we are soft. fortified by the empty epiphany of touch. we are weightless. arrogant acrobats underestimating gravity's reach.

ambivalent amateurs on an unforgiving stage. reluctant travellers searching for somewhere to be.

loose skins wore their obvious thieves. a conjugation of patience. the labor of flesh. as the skeleton corrupts.

the color of when. empty rooms. the places they wish to be.

changes came and went. fevers spent on impotent diseases.

he panicked. threw all his apples into the mud. narrow angles coaxing the edges. clever thieves wearing the cold until it turns on us.

the sober math of lovers. counting backwards from nothing.

we squandered our days on spoiled atoms and sober molecules. eager children drowning in the pandemonium of our growth.

doses of how like a broken medicine. stumbling soldiers in a war of moments. all of our choices. feathers falling in a vacuum.

untamed particles chasing gravity.

the edge of the world spent her. like tarnished pennies. time made its pencil marks. drawing loudly in the darkness. broken lines. colorless thieves. stealing nothing of consequence. tall ladders. choke on the height. the snicker of gravity in every step.

deep wells measure light in fractions. in memories of the surface. the relativity of sight. in echoes of the depth. the usual culprits.

the aptitude of flesh. in footsteps and rain. the chew of skin. as the skeleton bites down. the sweat of kings. in a feast of panic. choices like a fever.

temptation's sour catalyst. wrinkled scarecrows and expired poisons. clutch the math. divisions of how. draw their imperfect maps. in dead skin.

tender monsters on the fulcrum of when.

it's cold here inside my skin.

dim parables exploit the flesh. obvious crises foul the buttons.

these arrogant machines. more superstition than science. these heavy bones. like a pendulum of trust.

all this empty space. its silence echoing. bald fractions devour the math of lovers and friends. the decimal confesses. the portions deflate.

the future came and went. while we were busy with the script.

ice cubes in the glass. melting situations. paper protagnists. in the wet stories of men and women. the slope of touch. like spoiled medicines. the promise of disease as it shapes us.

all blunt needles and frayed threads. the preposterous plague of hope. as it stumbles. spreading its infection.

thieves enough she ventured. given the downward trajectory of the sun. earnest puzzle pieces undeterred by reason.

she wondered how. as the circumstance consumed her. she toyed with why as it happened. the clumsiness of life. each existence ruthlessly absorbed by a relentless invasion of moments. pages resolved to the standard poisons. with little resistance.

this awkward affair between intellect and skin. loose scabs flaunting all their glorious infections. 

urgent faces coming into focus. hungry actors drowning in the famine of their audience. reluctant gunshots negotiating stubborn wounds.

she sees how far. in broken crutches and brittle bridges. a long allegory of strangers in the shadow of the scorpion's sting. the familiar venom of lovers and friends.

years lived. a measure of distance more than time.

the number confides. yawning scars. the future in increments. chasing promises long since expired. meat clings to the bone. but hunger easily manipulates any given circumstance.

soft scabs fester. a riot of flesh. small revolutions distort us. animals gnawing on leashes attached to no one. lazy roads ambling into storms that never burst open. the angle of if sharper than ever. the pull of gravity like a lover scorned.

the distance is measured, not in effort, but in depth. we don't go anywhere. we are always taken.

in inches. in miles. in pieces. the mosaic of touch always building upon its cumulative treason.

one road. a hundred. there's always a bridge. there's always a gap to cross.

she's gone. the glass is dark. we wait for the siren. though we're unsure of the crime.

a fatal submission. to the religion of how. to the sin of why.