little rabbits outrun the hungry foxes. in an obtuse world. where everything is too bright.

cut by the sharp corners. as they wnader through their mazes.

our diseases choose their symptoms from deep inside us. 

atoms collide and their reaction undoes us.

slender matchsticks aborted by the flame. a curious inertia among the intensity of our choices.

the race is run. the finish lines crosses us. all wilted storms and frozen fists.

gravity panics. and our wings briefly grip the wind.

brave rabbits lick the foxes' fangs. shocked to taste their own blood. 

the cold tells its stories in simple conceits and shattered skin.

a lonely metaphor of grief in a cacophony of narcissists.

all the buttons are made of why. all the zippers forged from when.

we press the needles through the fabric. but the holes are too deep.

the pillows wear their dented grins.

the sheets fumble with the stitches at the backs of our necks.

we solve each other with melted candy and rusted hammers.

looking for the truth in all the wrong places. 

alcoholicpoet.com

A sad poem about unexpected change. As if there is any other kind. 


yesterday i was only a number. now her words have been added to the puzzle.

her skin is a riddle that still remains to be solved.

the sharp corners give the devil egress. a single flame that haunts a lengthy corridor.

the light counts its footsteps as it approaches the door.

possessed of the enviable valor of the naive.

a thief itself, dwarfed by reason.

the light touches the window. to feel what it cannot see.

the chalky grins of its prisoners. the cotton eyes of their empty rooms.

the light holds its breath. 

violating her carefully curated darkness.

as it surreptitiously enters. 

undeterred. even knowing that,

once inside, there is no exit.


Filed under: December 2024 Sad Poetry

alcoholicpoet.com

A little bit of sad poetry about the combustion of choices. 


she idles. treading in the throat of time. waiting to drown. 

she listens. to the currents as they devour the islands that still remain. 

the moment swallows hard. and she wonders will it choke on her. 

but the truth is, she knows she's too small. 

their choices explode. a cacophony of touch. 

she wonders. whether the monster under her bed will find its way between her sheets. 

names are for the privileged. choices are for the fortunate. 

and she is neither of those things. 

she measures the distance between them.

 by the fire under her skin.


Filed under: Sad Poems December 2024

alcholicpoet.com

a little bit of  sad poetry about how our frailties make us strong.


dragonflies and caterpillars tell their tales.

delicate wings scrape the wind. shattered cocoons tease the sun.

loose skin falls away as we move to touch.

the bones underneath more broken than we expected.

words turn to clay. much too soft to hold.

we play gravity's infectious games.

flying and falling again and again.

never knowing if we've won.

our voices fade to whispers. our bodies become ghosts.

life is an icicle. time is an oven.


Filed under: December 2024 Sad Poetry

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

the wind is weight enough. as the road unfolds under my panic. there are no places. there are no sounds. as we slip out of these wasted skins.

the rain's simple song. the body's grave inflections. hope's deceitful epiphanies.

the cautions of thieves. all broken threads. the force of distance. a catapult of choices.

it's all knots. tiny nooses. blunt needles. caught in the holes.

our bodies spread like disease. touch is fatal. our lips betray. every word a treason.

the distance tells us. little stories of picnics and wolves. breadcrumbs and candy houses. to gut. to follow.

and big teeth. so many fangs. biting down.

purple blankets fester. in the persistent cold. wet matches  rupture the vacuum.  small flames. pinch the darkness. distant noises. name their ghosts. unfinished portraits. more speculation than evidence.

life arrives in the bones. moist and dense. a slurry of confessions thick with blood and marrow. choice spoils fate. again and again. infects the skin and leaves it to revel in all its wonderful diseases.

close enough she confesses. touch is acid. easily boring holes in us.

her eyes. temperamental skeletons. trying to dance, though there isn't any music. just sound. as it listens to us struggle for gravity as we fall.

the end is patient. the war is fickle. brick by brick. the evolution solves for self, but rarely does.

the bars on this prison are so weak, yet its cage still persists.

stuttering lips cure the shadows of their cancer. but the dead are still the dead. and the world is still flat in some places. expressions like ladders made of rope. nearly impossible to ascend. templates of skin. anticipate the colors that seldom come.

those lazy corners never fail to surprise. with their contents. equally as empty as they are dense. with butterflies and their deceptive sneezes.

the years throttle. the hours combust. inside the engine of our traumas. skin like pages. breath like ink. and the words that would claim them. for everything we've never been.

it's the absense that's most appealing. the limp in her voice that sparks.

the flames have their own ambitions. but the ashes belong to us.

it's not enough just to be crippled. you need to break.

the machine has its parameters. the distance has its girth. lovers get lost. touch remains.

wondering atoms reach for the edge. of an ever expanding universe. the nucleus drifts from center. and everything is chaos and ecstasy. the weakness summons her. a raw king naked at its throne. an empty power. and a despairing fury. slip under her skin. to grow their famine.

The words wince. Against the thickening cold. The woman deliberates. Where the weather ends and she begins. How much distance is too far to go.

The winter approaches softly. Arrives in a scream. She flourishes in the dying. Gravity croons its tender ballads. As the ground clenches hard. The bottom seduces in missing skin and scabby bandages. The elementary physics. The random cuts and bruises. Of willing victims. And reluctant villains.

An empty carousel at the center of the world. spinning slowly. a long courtship with frail demons and  asthmatic gods. at last reaching its suffocating end.

Straw houses betray, And even the brick kind. Eventually fall.

It's the poetry of the circumstance.

the tentacles of darkness obey. the thumping chorus of blood and bone. empty elements. nameless wars. corners of the body twist and bend. only the edges are to be trusted. thin, grey pulpits ripe with fever and fetish.

the little man carrying the world in his pocket.

we measure in colors. we grieve in decimals. we live in fractions. the simplest disease is the deadliest.  we cut our mazes through the tendons and the flesh. blades and bridges the same. only one way across. soft skeletons bear the weight. of godless men. and their simple saviors.

deep pockets in the surface. the drama asserts its resonance. a coy predator. with all fangs spent. the cliched conundrum. of beautiful girls in ugly dresses. a dirty vaccine against the purest sickness.

spoiled by the words. indebted to the touch. all our desires are forfeit.

finding the end. in scrapes of how. and delusions of if. the edge of the world crisp and determined. their belted parables. their knotted heavens. like so many grendaes already spent.

the vagaries of causality. choices like stale bread. and memory in its usual hysteria. angles. portions of when. leave us hungry.

the asthma of time chokes us. a pale irony in broken colors. the edge grows louder. the distance grows deaf.

small buckets and their many leaks. all  the little lies that matter far too much.

the whispering words kick and stumble. their stingers stuck under the skin. venom spent.

the skewed temples resonate. the dance of insatiable molecules. and hungry atoms. her lips. an anxious geometry of places. curdling sighs and rotting kisses. a soft painting still wet with the colors of a careless promise.

she chases time. her soiled eraser determined. she faces the engine. the wheezing turbines of touch and connection that  pry these edges from the fists of gravity.

falling comes naturally.

the hours owed. the distance possessed. the soft scabs that negotiate the perimeter. the endless war the mirror wages. the quiet ends we come to accept.

love's weighted lavender. despair's flawless red.

all these colors louder than ever.

we get lost in these easy wars. of bone and flesh. the end always close behind.

the world ends on the tip of her pen. a subtle chaos more content to linger than to protest. the hovering clouds. the intricate choices. a diary of how far we are from any given gods.

time begins at the base of her breasts. and stops at her lips. the shape of the world is woman. the rest of us just bend to fit.

she discussed with the atoms. the simple things. the obvious ladders. as the storm predicts.

the world ended yeaars ago. a series of bridges. more detour than path. she gambles her seasons on hollow wiinters.  and stubborn solutions to mutable monsters. the sweet of candy houses. the sour of patient corpses.

the awful lies that have always known. the extremes of flesh. the many potent treasons that fuel the hearts of men. just a solitairy tomorrow on the sharp edge of her grin. like a distant song pissing its music into the gusting wind.

the words stall. dense with stipulations the maze yawns. the rodents swallow the corridors. the experiment becomes us.

the world in bridges. so much drowning underneath it. the shadows loud. the confusion dense enough to bleed.

polished scars shine against the grey of the edge. the long drop sneers and beckons. a hyena swimming in tears.  waiting in folds. arriving in creases. just like the way time elapses when you're lost.

reversing turns and failing orbits. chase the strings on distant stars. brightly lit kites. long dead. brave enough to still burn for us.

the naked snakes still wander the garden. peddling their temptations in a perfect geometry. the steps still tremble with the choke of the world. a beautfil disease eager to become us.

her red words bleed into void. screams without a sound. the darkness presses down hard. a growing weight. on a rotting stairway. the choke of gravity whispers its empty song.

the hollow sky. the seldom rain. do their work. to extract years from minutes. the pleated doll. the anxious stranger. a frail epiphany of choices. more wrist than razor blade.

the ugly voices. the simple scrapes. the face of god still reflected. In all the broken mirrors.

tepid nightmares linger. curtains and bridges. in thunder and drizzle. hysterical predators stroking their fangs. the hours guess her. no color. only black and white. empty autumns shit their hues. the wind turns. blades bend. angles bite.

simple wars. flames linger. swallowing tomorrow. in thirsty gulps. grab at switch. were the moment sufficient i wouldn't have to write at all.

even lost. touch finds its maps. mended skin has its scars to show. even in the dark.  broken bulbs have gravity to negotiate. the edges whisper. of wolves and picinics. and lessons leanred in stabs.

the world whispers of betrayal. measuring lotalty by the depths of wounds. heavy with choices. ignorant of the execution. drowning in the distance between monsters. 

the torn hem wears her grin. in threads of how. the future overtakes us. her skin like heavy robes. rigid with needles and useless medicines. choice. a series of random pinnochios desperate to be real. 

dreaming up her wars in bouts of sun.

wood, straw and bricks. naming their gravity. in broken clolors spoiled by sweat. the temporary monsters of flesh. have their betrayals calculated.

empty guns blame the bullets. simple strangers gather their wolves.

knowing the edge. the uncretain science of patience. pinholes in the clouds. a fever of trust. still rich enogh to  purcahse the game outright.

the rain falls. smooth on the glass. the storm waits. knots to be undone. places to take us where w've always been.

The barter of when. The collaspe of how. Proximity like a razor. Processes the blood. Flaunts the infection.

swollen storms find her veins. pale breadcrumbs whsiper the path. of seldom soldiers and humble villains. the drizzle echoes. a curious song against the dead concrete. the snow falls. the icicles drip. like hungry dogs. bartering for their fangs.

naming the ghosts. as seems obvious to do. the hierarchy of skin not withstanding. soft monsters within erupt. crooked ladders chasing empty attics.

imaging the world in rotten fruit skins and stale bread. the hunger louder still.

life turns softly. on the needle's point. an epiphany of monsters more crayon than pencil.

the sweet misery of when. a fickle gravity pulling fast. in useless stabs of broken glass. time unfolds. like splinters deeply embedded. a circus of strangers. tarnished by circumstance.

the simple cancer of want. contaminating every atom. the awful cure that is forgetting. yawning wide. to swallow every chance.

the darkness solves for us. the rain manipulates the weather. the end debates her. in knotted threads and hurried whispers.

no one's there. everyone is.

bent shadows scrape the ceiling. searching for a limit. the heat builds. in empty ovens. travellers boast their paths in sour candies. if the future knew her. surely it would admit. the end is thick and grey. musty with old knots and soiled bandages.

the entrance swells with virulent predators. the rim grips her. in a spectacle of weakness. gravity shouts. in its husky whisper. like running water. the beautiful monsters of men. drowning in the gorgeous tucks and folds of simple choices.

the edges of the paper sharp. the little dolls dancing. on whims of ink and eager strangers. her busy buckets hungry for more. distant claws find the crease. the color bleeds in calm confessions. the scabs form slower than expected.

candy houses with all the lights out. revel darkly in the cost of witches.

solvent storms wager the moments. in thunder. the wager overcomes her. constructing the soul. in scraps and tremors. of the last distaster. empty houses grab the storm. easy bridges. of stones and sticks. chase the ghosts that make their home in the edges.

the broken ladders. the spent doors. a chaos of fangs in the shadows of her picinic. wearing her forest in stolen angles. and discarded dressess.

the softer words still trying to decide. as the hard edges creep inward.

seldom leopards. reticent wolves. all the howls a predator can boast. like broken nails. struggling to hold together so much rotting wood.

the bulb goes out. the light surrenders. it's in our nature to deny it. but the shadows know us better.