Friday, September 19, 2014

"4 AM Minstrel"

"4 AM Minstrel" 

My eyes meet the sky
under lies I pretend are true.
You for me:
A farce.
A fallacy I fashion into fantasy
in my most weary of instances.

Playful pretentiousness aplenty.
I purposely purport a penchant
for the pomp of passionate moments
that have never even taken place.

I wander in want
and wonder what daunting
depths lie before my imaginative emissions.
Conditions better served for story tellers.

Sellers of secrets that stick
to the side of the brain
driven so far past insane
that pain is rarely an impedance. 

I dream this and thrive.

I dive. 

I fall in and sprawl when
I crawl into my fondest of fancies.
Glancing at the sky once again,
I grin when one would presume grimace. 

Penance for the thinker: 

Drinker of emotions laced with devotion
to such tasteless thoughts between
what the mild mannered would dream.

One would sigh at the mere sight.
The steam that accompanies what I envision.
Thoughts that glisten but are tarnished.
A far miss from most... 

Most who would boast without hesitation
that the nature of their intent
for some isn't unspeakable.
Even so,
my need to profess is quelled.

So I yell to the skies with my eyes
as if it hurts to blink.
I think of what we'd do
and how much we could get away with. 

A day with desire.

My pupils burn drier than fire
and I cannot maintain.
Eyelids close to calm the flames
and all that remains
are the embers of imagination.

No temptation.
No fixation.
Barely a trace memory
of how you smell to place with
how I believe you would taste. 

No thoughts left to chase.

Just a face etched into memory,
some symmetry for sport
and your number as my very last resort
in case it all overwhelms me.

If ever I dared to call,
I wonder what you would tell me? 

I usually fall asleep by then. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz 


Monday, September 15, 2014



The wall is green. 

Can't color your anger illness.
No condition for listless demeanor.
Sweet dreamer of sabotage
secluded in camouflage
haunted by your own shortcomings.
Accountability that of foreign plains
you'd never claim to tread.
Would count the times instead
of even the most obvious of blessings.
Dressing up before facing a world
of those who look past blush and curls
for some semblance of inner beauty.
Their favor you desire
yet you let the worst transpire
before those who bear no notice. 

The depth of your spite.
Contrite never.
Only clever in your calmer musings.
Perceived yourself confusing
when engaged in internal conflict.
Coupled leisure time with

thoughts of how to keep them in the barrel.
The mind surely travels far
for what it stands to gain little of.
Lust for love
with no means of gain. 

Just blame. 

A name etched into the green
clean across the room from you.
Grievance all that you implore.
Those concerned ask for more
but "they don't understand." 

Do they? 

Who knew they had to, honestly? 

Their daydreams of grandeur
you dismiss as blasphemous idolatry
until your chance at such is revealed.
Filled with emotions as thick as potion
climbing up beneath your chin,
drying up from deep within.
No lotion to greet the skin. 

Tie them up to watch them faint.
Line them up and make it quaint.

Cleanest halls you wish to taint.
Washed the walls but not the paint.
Sit there lonesome over dinner.

Quash the Saint. Embrace the Sinner.
Spinner of dark thoughts purported
to the point of true importance. 

Vengeful actions ill advised.
Will to wade beneath the eyes
of bound and broken, desperate cries
in some sick plot to realize
that misery and singularity
are non-productive forms of therapy.
The cost of clarity too steep.
You wash your face with tears they weep

and still can't get rid of the stains.
Guilt rests deep within your pores
to the point where
you make sure
that the wall isn't green anymore. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz