Saturday, June 27, 2015



Promise I nothing.
Divine to find something
under the layers of drifters
searching like sifters
as if it would chip the pavement.
Came with ambition
but no actual mission.
Just word play and emissions.
The buy time tradition
held in high regard
when things get hard. 

Promise I next to...
.....very much near
to the point where it all around you
steers clear of existence.
That persistence in your stroll.
Facets of control
you have all but begged me for.
Lay upon me like bare floors:
hard, bare and cold.
Deep cover the lonesome hover
of nightly positioning.
Glass broken and glistening.
Decorative, desolate shrapnel.
Moments you've tackled
the hassle of wondering how they got there
and in the air.
and in your hair so greasy.
Larger shards removed freely.
Smaller crumbs discovered in leisure.
Concrete erupts in seizures
to incur the upheaval of housing.
Scrounging about the brainstorm.
Sudden thoughts upon temporary norms
and form will not take
until evening breaks the sun into sections. 

Promise I forever
that never is more commonplace.
There's the chase
and the race
for a taste
and its all fun.
The lead pipe. The handgun.
The one near the end of suffering
and he who will come to know it
soon after blowing it
upon that which still knows no sift. 

So let them drift. 

The least of worthwhile gifts
invoking some form of commemoration.
Cold World with few warm situations.
Such a frigid life.
If not for strife,
recreation would lack luster.
Hush her. Rush him.
Touch them and be we
who can't relate and will not relent.
Consent of deliberately blind eyes
that cry somehow
when what was planned now
is still more how
than one who now mingles with the gutter
where butter was a bonus
and the best bread was stale
to the wounded and frail
but so few could tell
given their desire driven grit
much to the chagrin
of pompous, manufactured wit. 


What solace accompanies this observation? 

Promised I over years.
Promise I won't forget.
Promised eyes shut to open ears:

I won't promise you shit. 

Now if you'll excuse me...

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

"Last Pulse: Sprint"

"Last Pulse: Sprint" 

In the most favorable of times,
you'll be gone before you read this.
Maybe this was in grand design.
I just don't know. 

Maybe we need this. 

Call it prerequisite
influenced by the negligence
that is ill fated aspiration.
Reaction to fixations
we should not latch onto.
We just mettle on, too.
Dust has settled on two
and only one foresaw it all. 

Careful not to call.
Closure is not apparent yet.
Head against the wall.
Each thump an inkling of regret.
Initially I fret.
Loneliness is never scenic
and even though we sorely need it,
none will rise high as the Phoenix. 

..... this that we emit.
Hapless Lass
Miserable Pile Of Secrets....
.... such is our zenith. 

We lived for the impossible.
Don't die before the plausible
can stave your making sense of it all. 

All fall but few land. 

Release hands.
Relinquish plans
and forget all
that we've wrought forcibly.
Gentle steer through the tears.
Past wants ringing in your ears
you should ignore vehemently. 

Be it with me
or the next,
find no solace in a test
that you shouldn't have to pass.
Fastened seal for turbulence.
Misplaced will has earned you this
and you won't kill.
Can't murder this
by believing that I exist
in forms of familiarity. 

Life will never uphold charity.
Accept the depth.
The gravity.
Don't convolute your clarity
when it isn't as endearing.
What we've smeared has left us smudges.
Neither earned the girth of judges
when the image that we see
is not quite what it used to be

so before you get used to me, 

take this chance to use and see
how far gone you'll need to be
before there's nothing left of we. 


Advance as far as time will take you.
Never look back.
Don't read. React
because life will forsake you
for piling on the pain
that has strained you
long before we've crossed paths. 

Don't be the martyr.
Take that cross back
and bear progression instead. 

Not speaking from the head
or the heart completely
be it logic
or my feelings,
you will still aim to critique me. 

Don't know if you're moving slow
or you're halfway away by now.
If you know what I know,
then you won't even ask how. 

Trust me. 

While your feet are motivated
before your footsteps forsake you
go as far away today
and hope that tomorrow takes you
to a place where you can be.
Better place fit for the free. 

This day,
the chase will end with me. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

Sunday, June 14, 2015

"Pulse Five: Whisper"

"Pulse Five: Whisper"
Been long since.
 Prolonged rinse of this mind
 presumably designed to delve
 further into that which is shelved
 in hope of the aversion of judgment.
 Perversion I run with;
 all but done with subtleties.
 Not much luxury left in waiting.
 Skirting around this....
 this mound of experiences
 I've admittedly fancied more than once.
I've imagined what it would be like:
 Your world willing to greet my curiosity.
 Philosophy of the enchanted
 never to shy far from that
 which surely keeps you up at night.
Oh the lines....
 the lines you've never read.
 the words I never said
 that have found time
 to emerge discreetly
 when they want to scream in pleasure and hunger.
Unsuccessful my attempt at aversion:
 See you hair,
 complexion fair
 but your thighs..... else.
 Lovely eyes
 but those.......
Limbs I've savored
 flavored like life savers
 with a gummy center.
 Yummy I'm sure
 and I've yet to pour a sip
until that day I'd call forever
when you'd tuck lips
 that I'd unzip
 and your hair flips.
 My hands take trips.
 This is navigation.
 Excavation without the ruins.
 Nothing ruined.
 Symmetrical beauty
 you hide for yourself
 because you barely knew me
but I aimed to know you.
 So much I've shown you.
 You trust and reciprocate.
I hope it's not too late
because it's been too long since
 I've been privy to mystery.
 Sugar is your sublime.
 Bitter your misery.
 I crave it all.
 Willing to crawl
 should I be granted the chance
 to kneel before it all.
Ears that can't yet hear through walls
 but when limbs meet lobes,
 I hear it all.
 Your thighs have grown thick with secrets.
 Concerned with if I can keep it.
 Giver of compliments.
 River of confidence
 sipping each drop as you leak it.
Been long since we've conversed.
Your silence is the worst kind.
 Written By: Devin Joseph Metz