Wednesday, November 26, 2014



I'm here on my back
and you voluntarily can't breathe.
What we need acknowledged.
Honest and bare. 

Would swear on it all
that I wouldn't get that phone call.
It obviously was never enough
to simply eliminate the bluff.
Stuffed me deep past airways
like days trapped in limbo.
the window barely predicting patterns.
Like a lantern's wick embracing flame,
your name escapes my lips
like embers drifting from the furnace.
Furnished well across this bed.
No clearer head for what we've said. 

Vision fancied and enjoyed
until tangibly employed.
No repentance.
Toyed with senseless
and it all made sense to we.
Shape and color happily distorted
in lieu of what we've purported.
To this day, I still can't ignore it.
Recollection of my body contorted
in surrender of released tension
that you'd ambitiously dismember. 

Understand why I choose to remember.... 

Grasping moments daily
where time can stand still
whilst I briefly relive the thrill
of a fine mess well made.
Cloaked under the thick shade
of racing minds and your eager lips.
Gently kissed the tip
as you latch onto my hips.
Soaked lap and cool air.
fist full of your hair
and guidance all my own.
You knelt at the altar
just to knock over the throne.
Home alone in welcome company.
Hopefully, no one would come for me 

before I did the same for you. 

Siphoned my soul whole
and replaced it with a new
igniting of fire I never knew existed.
Couldn't resist even if I had the nerve
to ignore the time reserved beforehand. 

Your hands. 

Surveying the surface with precision.
Timeless movement under conditions
that most would squander in anticipation

but not you. 

Watched you fondling your fixation
with a purpose only disclosed
after seeing that the morsels of your labor
never make it to your clothes.
Closed mouth well fed.
Still on my back. Spinning head.
Nights since then my skin glows red
sitting at the edge of this bed.... 

....thinking about all that led us here.

If it never happens again,
rest assured. I will remember.
This I won't return to sender. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

Sunday, November 9, 2014



You try to ignore it all
as it falls around you.
You focus on me. ...

They look over to see you
step down from that pedestal
like the Herald of a diety.
They praise you like the celestial
and mock you like the harlots they indulge in.

For so long I was sickened.
Listened to their invites
but was quickened to say no.
I'd rue the day that I would go
and here I am spinning this gaunt story.
You feign intrigue and flaunt before me.
The surrounding taunt my measures
and rationalize their guilty pleasures.
Treasured nothing of this manner.
The theatrics hardly matter.
Pretty girl here twirling faster
swirling helpless as men chatter.

Fatter pockets dictate time.
Scaled back reason. Salvaged rhyme
to flail before them like wind chimes.
Make this fortune in your prime.
Get this money. Start the show.
Hide that tarnish. Make it glow.
For the years that tears must flow,
Do your best before you go.

Mess of millions marked and bundled.
Watch your step or you might tumble.
No breakthrough for damaged goods.
Count it up then place your hood
overhead and avoid strangers.
Day to day an increased danger
from the ones who rob and loot
to those looking for recruits.

For so long I was sickened.

Eyes become hands and the plot thickens.

Meeting them at a premium.
For certain, closed curtains are costly
but only one can afford it.
No one will ignore it.
On the verge once you emerge
to observe the newly intrigued.
Besieged under their teeming enchantment.
You can't but they know you will.
They've laid rumor to your skill
and expect you to act accordingly.
Your name and age are secondary
when the main stage becomes necessary.

Faceless angel with a past
somewhere buried under cash.
Flashed a bit under the spotlight.
Hid the pressure on those hot nights
when cold liquor takes a spill.
Trembling hands outline their thrill.
Gaudy shrill in all the rapture
of attention I have captured.
They cheer on. I take the chance.
Lucky me for this lap dance.
They implore that I enslave you.
No intent but I won't save you.

You've no true interest in me.
Do your deed. Collect your fee
but glancing back, you just may see
where my hands and eyes will be.

This service.
A little nervous.
Eyes fixed on
fawn and the fixture.
The meshing.
The mixture.
Lasting picture of each day.
Pick it all up and walk away.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

Tuesday, November 4, 2014



Amid the stars,
you reach out for me. 

I recall past instances
and even times more recent
when I perceived your efforts decent
enough to believe they were sincere.
Crystal clear one's vision
whilst the other darts between
one gleam after the last
dashed glimmer of hope
destined to revert to particles of smoke.
Dreams so dry and deliberately driven
marred by the shelf life
of wishes previewed and unforgiven.
Your eyes are drawn to the shine
but can't manage to muster
what comes of those clusters
once they begin to lose their luster. 

Now your murmurs find me. 

Within the moon's reflection,
you call out to me. 

Tone and inflection
once inviting...
... enticing even.
Sufficient more so now
that I remain derelict to your requests.
Your quest for recovery
a rather inconvenient discovery
of one's penchant for incompetence.
Compliments stalled and angrily sprawled
under the increasing disbelief
that our interactions could be this brief
even when you display grief.
No creaking desire to salve
and I won't open the valve
and I can't always be there
and trust me: life isn't fair. 


neither is love for that matter. 

Now you pull away from me. 

Under the brilliance of the sun
you feign your contempt for me. 

The burn.
The churn.
The malaise in every phrase.
So pretentious. Clearly fazed.
Grazed your fault as you vault
over fence lines and chain links
we've forged at the brink
of our nonsensical pattern of behavior.
Time the only savior remaining
for one so inept at retaining
an inkling of realization. 

Our farce is your fixation. 

Yet I ask if you think of me. 

Lit wick and slow burning fire.
It tires but it will not die.
I don't even ask why anymore.
This lonesome chore of recant.
Said that we can't
but we do
and who are we to judge in the first place?
Told truths about love in that first taste. 

Distasteful displacement.
Kept pace with each other's transgressions;
ready and anxious to dish out lessons
that we still have yet to learn.
That foolish yearning for a destination.
No room for transformation
when one seeks out transportation
instead of the will to stand still. 

We fit the bill of overkill. 

I guess you're mad and confused now. 

Me too. Nothing new. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz